


Don't Tell My Dads My Boyfriend Is A Werewolf

by sarahatqt



Series: Don't Tell My Dads [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Crossover, M/M, Past Affair Between Dean/Benny, Stiles Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahatqt/pseuds/sarahatqt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My dads want to meet you." Stiles Winchester!verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

Stiles shuffled his feet uncertainly, kicking up a small dirt cloud that hovered around his worn sneakers for a moment before settling again. What was he doing hanging around his boyfriend’s house like a creepy stalker? What was he thinking coming here with the hopes of actually _keeping_ said boyfriend after the monumental fiasco that was about to occur? What—

“What’s wrong?” Derek asked from the porch, startling the young man into jumping a step back.

“Jeez, creep much?” Stiles huffed, shoving trembling hands into the pockets of his red hoodie—the one that smelled so, so, _so_ much like Derek for reasons that the teen hoped his parents wouldn’t discover for a very long time. Or ever. Ever sounded good, too.

Stepping down from the porch and stopping in front of Stiles so that the tips of their shoes were almost touching, Derek crossed his arms. “You’re the one that’s been out here for the last twenty minutes muttering to yourself.” His posture was stiff; probably bracing himself for what Stiles was about to throw at him.

And damn if it wasn’t the curve ball of all curve balls.

“My dads want to meet you.” The words came out rushed, and when Derek didn’t react right away, Stiles thought that maybe he hadn’t understood what had exploded from his mouth. But as the teen took a breath to try again, Derek’s nostrils flared and his jaw clenched with a painful creak of his teeth.

“Why?”

Stiles shifted again, shaking his head incredulously and swallowing the hysterical laughter bubbling at the back of his throat. “Because…we’re dating?” Again, no reaction. “Sorta?” Still nothing. “Maybe?”

Shoulders slumping a fraction, Derek sighed and looked somewhere over the teen’s shoulder. “Stiles….”

“Please.”

The older man was taken aback by the amount of devastation in that one word, and as his gaze snapped back to his boyfriend’s pale face, he took in the anxious look he was getting with more than a little surprise.

“Please,” Stiles repeated, taking a shallow breath and shaking his head. “Don’t break up with me. I’ll tell them no, okay? You don’t have to, I just…They want….”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not breaking up with you. Calm down.”

Stiles did. Like, literally almost sagged to the ground. His legs were Jell-O. Or maybe spaghetti noodles. Spaghetti noodle-flavored Jell-O.

Hmm…Oh, wait. Ew.

“Stiles?”

Stiles shook away the strange thoughts. “Huh?”

Derek’s eyebrows furrowed, and he uncrossed his arms to place two very large, very warm, warm, _warm_ hands on the teen’s biceps. Whatever tension was left in Stiles’ body melted away with that warmth. “I said: ‘When do they want to meet?’ ”

“Oh.” Stiles shivered, unconsciously stepping further into Derek’s space. So warm. So, so warm. “Uh, dinner? Yeah, dinner. Tonight, 5:30.”

The older man nodded. “Okay. Do I need to…dress up, or something?”

“You have dressy clothes?”

“…No.”

Stiles laughed. “No, you don’t need to dress up. Just….” He tugged at the black T-Shirt cling-cling-clinging to a well-muscled torso. “Maybe something that’s not so…tight.”

“I thought you liked _tight_ ,” Derek teased with a smirk, pulling Stiles in so that the teen was flush against his chest.

“Yeah, well, I don’t need my dads knowing that, okay?” Stiles looked up uncertainly, his hands clenching the fabric of Derek’s shirt. “You sure? I mean, you’ll be sitting at a table with a hunter and an angel.”

“A retired hunter and a fallen angel,” Derek corrected for him. “I know who your parents are, Stiles. I think I can handle an hour or two of awkward conversation.”

“More like interrogation,” the teen sighed. “And I’ll just apologize in advance for that, if you don’t mind…Sorry.”

Derek shook his head. “I wish you’d tell them what I am.”

“My pop would _freak_ ,” Stiles said, dropping his head to rest against the older man’s shoulder as he remembered his earlier conversation with his parents….

_Sometime Earlier Around the Breakfast Table:_

_“Stiles, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Castiel said calmly as he set plates on the table. “Would you like to invite the young man you’ve been seeing to dinner?”_

_Stiles dropped his jaw. Dean dropped the pancake he’d been flipping at the stove._

_“What?” the teen squeaked._

_“What?” Dean demanded, spatula clutched tightly in a white-knuckled fist. “Stiles, are you dating? Cas, how do you know he’s dating? He didn’t say he was dating. You—” He pointed the utensil fiercely. “—didn’t say you were dating.”_

_“Pop….” Stiles started, running a hand through his short hair._

_“Dean, hush,” Castiel reprimanded absently, crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator and pulling out a pitcher of orange juice. “I think it’s time we met him. Is tonight acceptable, Stiles?”_

_“Um.” The young man floundered for words as Castiel handed him the pitcher and turned back into the kitchen. Stiles watched his dad reach for the silverware drawer, simultaneously running deft fingers over his pop’s stomach in a calming manner. Dean was still staring at Stiles with an intense, fixed gaze that made the teen’s teeth ache. “I’ll ask him. I think he’s free tonight.”_

_“Is it someone from school? Do we know him?” Dean asked, eyes narrowing. “It’s not that guy who lives out in the woods, is it? In that burned piece of crap?”_

_Shit…._

_“Dean,” Castiel said again, his fingers moving to curl around the ex-hunter’s side, “I’m sure this is very important to Stiles. It would be helpful if you were supportive rather than suspicious.”_

_“He’s been_ dating, _Cas. Without us—me—knowing. How am I not supposed to be suspicious?” Dean turned his narrowed eyes on Castiel, leaning his head back slightly so he didn’t have to look at the other man cross-eyed. “How long have you known? And why didn’t you tell me?” Without waiting for an answer, his gaze swiveled back to Stiles, and his spatula was pointing again. “Are you being safe? Do we need to have the talk again? This guy isn’t pressuring you, is he?”_

_“God, Pop! No! That isn’t even an issue yet, jeez!” Well, it wasn’t an issue as long as grinding down onto Derek’s lap while they made out wasn’t really sex…It wasn’t, right? Stiles could feel his face heating up, and he looked everywhere but at his parents, the orange juice sloshing in the pitcher as he shifted his weight. “We’ve been dating for, like, a month. Give me some credit, huh?”_

_“We do give you credit, Stiles,” Castiel assured, returning to the table with the silverware and placing it neatly beside the plates. “I’ll plan dinner for the four of us tonight, then. Does your friend have any aversions or allergies to certain foods that I should be aware of?”_

_“N-No,” Stiles stuttered, allowing his dad to take the pitcher from his hands._

_“Dean,” the angel said as he poured juice into the few glasses on the table, “you’ve dropped something.”_

Sometime Later at the Hale House:

“Dad…Dad might actually be okay with it,” Stiles said with a small amount of hope. “And he has Pop wrapped around his little finger, so it shouldn’t be…a _huge_ problem. I think.”

Derek nodded, ducking his head so that his stubbled cheek rested against Stiles’ temple. “I’ll be there. 5:30?”

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed with relief.

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Besides your fangs?”

“Stiles….”

The teen swallowed. “Pop…likes pie.”

“Pie?”

“Apple,” Stiles affirmed with a nod.

“All right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	2. The Meet. And Greet.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He's late."

“He’s late,” Dean groused from the living room couch, arms crossed and a sour look on his face. Stiles, sitting in the armchair opposite his father, was horrified to realize just how much the gesture reminded him of Derek.

Oh, God. He was dating his pop.

“No, he’s not,” Castiel called gently from the kitchen, muffled noises echoing out to them as the angel put the finishing touches on dinner.

“Babe,” Dean argued, pointing at the clock on the mantelpiece as if Castiel were there to actually see him make a fuss, “he’s almost _ten minutes_ late!”

“And, as I continue to remind you,” Castiel said, his tone tolerant and quiet as ever—no doubt from years of practice, “your clock is eleven minutes and forty-three seconds fast. Stiles’ friend is not late. You are merely trying to find reasons to dislike him before we are acquainted.”

“He’s dating our son. I’m entitled to dislike him.”

“O-kay,” Stiles said, standing and glancing back and forth between the kitchen and his father, “the _son_ in question? Sitting _right here_. Not invisible. Can hear everything you say, actually.”

“Stiles—” Dean started, pinching the bridge of his nose, but the teen was quick to cut him off.

“No, Pop. I can’t do this if you’re gonna pull your _what-are-your-intentions-with-my-son_ crap, okay? This is important. This is really, _really_ important to me, and I’m already kinda freaking out, and you’re not _helping_!”

Dean’s arms had uncrossed. Cas had come to the kitchen doorway. Both were watching him carefully, closely. They always had when he’d had something to say, even if it was stupid and rant-y and something he just needed to get off his chest.

Stiles got the impression that with his dad being an angel and all, listening was sort of a built-in mechanism. But with Pop, he could see that it took a bit of effort—and with Uncle Sammy being the way he was, he really couldn’t blame the guy. At least he was trying.

Stiles swallowed and wiped sweaty hands onto his jeans. “Sorry. I just…. I’m nervous. Derek and I…. We’ve been dating for a month, but we’ve known each other for a lot longer than that. So I know what I’m getting myself into. Derek…Derek’s a good guy—he’s a _great_ guy—and I just want you to give him a chance before you say you hate his guts.”

There was a short silence while his parents shared a look before Dean spoke.

“So, it _is_ that guy from the woods, then.”

“ _Pop_.” Stiles slapped his hands over his face and sat down roughly in the armchair.

“Dean,” Castiel warned.

“All right, all right.” Dean stood and took the couple steps to the armchair, crouching down in front of his son and sighing deeply. “Buddy, we know this is important to you. It’s important for us, too.” Stiles let his hands fall and stared at his pop resignedly. “It’s just…new, I guess. We don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Derek would never hurt me,” Stiles argued, but Dean held up a hand.

“And I know you believe that. But I still remember the crush you had on that chick from school—”

“Lydia,” the teen supplied helpfully.

“—and how you moped for _weeks_ after she finally rejected you.”

“This is really helping. Thanks, Pop.”

“My point is,” Dean said exasperatedly, “that you’re a Winchester. And you know how we Winchesters are about family.” He smirked somewhat to lighten the mood. “Hell, I’m still leery about your Uncle Gabe, and he’s been terrorizing the family since before you were born.”

Stiles smiled tightly. He liked Uncle Gabe, as much as his pop complained him.

“I don’t want you to think we’re taking this lightly, okay?” Dean continued, glancing at the clock out of the corner of his eye. “And I would like to point out that he is now officially—”

_Ding-dong._

“Here!” Stiles yelped, standing and nearly knocking Dean over in the process. “He’s here. God, Pop, please. _Please_ act normal.”

Dean stood and dusted invisible dirt from his jeans. “When don’t we act normal?”

Hand on the doorknob, Stiles looked back at the hunter with a patented Uncle Sammy bitch-face. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

“Stiles, your friend is waiting,” Castiel prodded, entering the kitchen again.

Stiles took a breath, offering his pop one last pleading glance before twisting the knob.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek arrived at the Winchester residence almost twenty minutes early. He’d cut the engine of his car up the street and let it roll in neutral until he was parked in front of the house. _Creeperish_ , as Stiles would put it. But he just needed some time to himself. Not that meeting the Winchesters was particularly nerve-wracking—Derek had gone up against all sorts of big bads, after all…but parents weren’t something that could be scared off or killed.

Unfortunately.

Derek was going to have to survive this night all on his own, despite Stiles’ earlier advice to bring his fangs along. Well, at least he’d brought pie….

Apple, as requested. Homemade, even. Not by Derek, of course—cooking wasn’t really his thing. But Scott’s mom had been more than accommodating in that respect.

_Sometime Earlier at the McCall House:_

_“You tell me if you need anything else,” she said in a very motherly tone as Scott stood by and groaned in embarrassment. “You won’t have any trouble with Castiel—he’s a sweetheart. But Dean is a little…rough.”_

_“Yeah, dude,” Scott agreed. “Mr. Winchester is kinda freaky sometimes.”_

_Derek sighed, which earned him a pat on the shoulder and a sympathetic smile._

_“The pie will help,” Melissa assured him. “Trust me.”_

Sometime Later at the Winchester House:

Funny how something so simple could soften the heart of a man with a reputation like that….

Derek snapped himself out of his daze and glanced at the digital clock of his car’s radio. He had one minute.

Shit.

Okay.

Derek got out of the car and made his way towards the house, pie in hand.

He could do this. He could definitely meet his boyfriend’s parents. And, hey, even if things didn’t go so well, it’s not like it was going to deter him from wanting to see Stiles. Or Stiles from wanting to see him.

_Ding-dong._

…Right?

The doorknob twisted. So did Derek’s stomach.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles’ eyebrows raised as he opened the door. Derek stood on the porch, absolutely still, in probably the cleanest pair of jeans he owned and a dark blue button-down ( _tucked-in_ , for God’s sake) that he’d probably borrowed from someone in the pack. A saran-wrapped apple pie was clutched in front of him like a shield, and the porch light did nothing to hide the anxious look on his face.

“Hey,” Stiles said quietly, allowing an easy smile to take his lips.

His boyfriend was standing on his porch. Ready to meet his parents. Looking almost friggin’ respectable. With pie.

Yeah, at that moment Stiles didn’t really care what his parents thought of his silly, wonderful werewolf. Derek was _his_ silly, wonderful werewolf, and that’s all that mattered.

Derek let loose a pent-up breath, and one corner of his mouth quirked as his shoulders dropped a fraction. “Hey,” he returned.

And, of course, this was the moment that Dean chose to clear his throat. Loudly.

“Jeez, Pop,” Stiles breathed with exasperation when the noise made him jump.

“You gonna let him in,” Dean began, one eyebrow raised, “or make him stand on the porch all night?”

“Is that an option?” the teen groused, stepping aside and pulling the door open all the way.

Derek glanced down at the saltline coating the threshold but didn’t even raise an eyebrow as he stepped over it and into the entryway. Stiles had already babbled on and on about saltlines and the like extensively, and the werewolf had indulged him enough to have the teen put them around his own sad excuse of a home. He’d drawn the line at painting sigils around the outside of the house, though. He was an outcast enough as it was—he didn’t need people thinking he was friggin’ Charles Manson.

Stiles watched his father study Derek as he stepped over the threshold. Probably was hoping he’d burst into flames or something. The teen didn’t actually know what happened to the _bad_ supernatural beings that dared cross a saltline, especially with his pop waiting on the other side. He only knew that Derek seemed to cross it with little difficulty when sneaking into his room some nights….

But Pop didn’t need to know about any of that.

“Mr. Winchester,” Derek said with a nod when Stiles failed to make introductions.

“Oh,” the young man said in a small voice, clearing his throat. “Uh, Pop, this is Derek. Derek, this is my pop, Dean.”

Derek shifted the pie to one hand, extending the other, which Dean grasped firmly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sir,” Derek said, Dean looking the man up and down before offering a tight smile.

“Yeah. Likewise.” The hunter eyed the pie in Derek’s other hand. “That apple?”

“Yes, Sir,” Derek replied, handing it over as Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Friggin’ pie,” he muttered, swinging the door closed.

“Heard that,” Dean stated absently, turning with pie in hand towards the hallway that lead to the dining room. “C’mon. Let’s see what Cas has cooking, huh?”

Derek turned an uncertain gaze on Stiles, who huffed and reached reassuringly for his boyfriend’s hand, entwining their fingers.

“So far, so good,” he murmured, pulling the other man along.

“There’s something I never asked you,” Derek said quietly. “What if your dad—the _angel_ —can sense what I am?”

“Been thinking about that myself,” Stiles sighed.

“And?”

They paused at the swinging door that separated them from the dining room.

“I guess we’ll find out.”

Derek tightened his hold on the teen’s hand. “And if he tells your pop?”

Stiles closed his eyes at the mere thought.

“Oh boy,” he said as he tugged his _hopefully-not-dead-anytime-soon_ boyfriend into what could potentially be enemy territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	3. Dinner. And a Chat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, Derek, how long have you two been sleeping together?"

Castiel was not what Derek had been expecting. Sure, he’d seen the man around town on the rare occasions that the fallen angel actually left the Winchester house on family outings, but he’d mostly been keeping an eye on Stiles. Like a creeper.

Yeah, okay. He’d been hanging around Stiles far too long.

But there was a mountain-sized difference between watching the family from afar and being in said family’s presence. And damn if Castiel didn’t have one hell of a presence. It smacked Derek in the face like…well, like an actual _smack to the face_. The werewolf’s nostrils flared as he took in the scent of warmth and bright, bright light and…was that sugar cookies? Wow. Angels really smelled like cookies. Weird.

“You must be Derek,” Castiel said, taking the pie from Dean and placing it on the kitchen counter before turning back to smile gently at him.

“Yes, Sir,” Derek said quietly, trying his best to quell the twisting of his stomach. Castiel extended his hand, which Derek took after a minor hesitation, expelling a shallow breath when the angel also clasped his other hand around the young man’s. His skin prickled, and the feeling snaked up his arm, pooling into his chest and constricting his lungs.

This was it. Castiel could tell, could see what he was. Any second, he’d turn and tell his husband, and then all hell would break loose. Literal hell. Because Derek knew far too much about the Winchesters than he was comfortable admitting—especially to Stiles. Yes, the Winchester brothers had a reputation. They had a freaking book series, for heaven’s sake.

And then, suddenly…the feeling in Derek’s chest was gone, replaced by calm that he hadn’t felt in years. Castiel’s brow line softened and he nodded a couple of times. “It is very nice to finally meet you. You can call me Castiel.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles released a pent-up breath that he’d only been half-aware of holding, ignoring the look he received from his pop and squeezing Derek’s fingers in his. “Okay! Dinner looks great, Dad! Should we…dig in?”

His dad stared at Derek a moment longer before releasing him and turning his attention to Stiles. “Yes. Let’s be seated.”

Castiel and Dean took one side of the table while the boys took the other. Stiles purposely sat across from Dean to make interrogation more difficult—though, knowing his pop like he did, there were few obstacles that would keep him from achieving what he set out to do. Which, in this case, would be terrorizing his boyfriend into admitting something heinous that would cause the end of their relationship and pulverize Stiles’ social life all in one go.

Two birds with one gigantic, weapon-wielding stone….

“So, Derek,” Dean started, face stony and eyes dark and focused as plates were passed around and loaded with food, “how long have you two been sleeping together?”

The plate in Stiles’ hold slipped out of his fingers, clattering to the table as he sank down further in his chair. “ _Pop_.”

Castiel sighed. “Dean, this is not an appropriate conversation for the dinner table, especially in front of our guest.”

“Yeah? Well, our twenty-something _guest_ is currently dating our _17-year-old_ son, Cas. Excuse me if I can’t quite wrap my head around the idea yet.”

Derek, who had yet to react to the hostile question, cleared his throat and smiled tightly as the attention was turned back onto him. “It’s fine, Mr. Winchester,” he said to Castiel. “Really, I don’t mind answering.”

Stiles watched pensively as his pop sat back in his chair, crossing his arms and motioning Derek to continue. This had been a terrible idea. Derek was going to be killed on their kitchen table, right in front of Stiles. He wouldn’t recover from that. Ever. He’d go insane, probably catatonic; he’d be locked away in some padded room, where no one would ever hear from him again. Oh God, Oh God, Oh—

Fingers slipped into his hand beneath the table, entwining with his own and squeezing gently. Oh. Oh, that was…good. That was very good. He could feel his heart rate slowing, his breathing coming back under control. Yeah, he could see now why this had worked so well for Scott when Allison had held his hand in Coach’s econ class last year when they’d been experimenting with keeping his anger under control. Thank God it worked for panic attacks, too.

He squeezed back.

Derek brazenly leveled his gaze with Dean’s, taking in a sharp breath and speaking calmly. “Stiles and I haven’t slept together. Yet.” He made sure to put emphasis on that last word, and Stiles flinched as his pop’s nostrils flared slightly. “We’ve decided that we aren’t at a point in our relationship—”

“ _Relationship_ ,” Dean huffed, shifting in his seat. But Stiles was amazed to see that the dark in his father’s eyes was slowly ebbing. He was actually _listening_.

“Relationship,” Derek repeated with enough conviction that the word seemed to echo off the walls and saturate the air, “where we feel comfortable with that. So we’ve agreed to wait.”

Dean scowled and opened his mouth to say something, but Castiel beat him to it, “Very well put, Derek. Thank you for assuring us that Stiles is receiving the respect he deserves. We appreciate your willingness to discuss this topic with us.”

Stiles held his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and only vaguely aware that he was still gripping Derek’s hand like a vice under the table. And when Dean’s only input was a grunt before he picked up his silverware and began to eat, the air in his lungs _whooshed_ out of him like he’d been holding it for years. With one last squeeze and a reassuring nod, he released his boyfriend’s hand and picked up his own silverware.

Wait…This wasn’t _real_ silver, was it? Did they even _own_ real silver that didn’t come in the shape of a bullet or a blade? Stiles glanced to his left and watched with wide eyes as Derek’s fingers grazed over the flatware beside his plate….

Nothing. No smoking skin turning to ash. Phew.

“Derek,” Castiel said when a long enough silence had stretched its elastic arms around them in a smothering hug, and Stiles visibly flinched, giving his father a pleading look that seemed to go ignored, “how did you and Stiles meet?”

Okay. Easy question. Well, easy enough. They’d practiced their story several times over the last couple of hours. It had to have some truth to it, of course—his parents were practically walking lie-detectors—but it didn’t have to be _all_ true. _Couldn’t_ be all true, actually. Otherwise there would be anger. Then blood. Then murder.

And oh, would there be murder….

“We have a mutual friend,” Derek answered calmly, spearing a piece of broccoli with his fork. Derek hated broccoli, Stiles knew. “Scott McCall.”

“Scott?” Dean asked with raised eyebrows.

“Yes,” Derek continued smoothly. “I know his mother from the hospital, and she asked if I would be willing to help him with an extra credit history project, do some sort of interview about my family. The Hales have been around since Beacon Hills was founded. We…lost a lot in the fire, documents and such, so a first-hand account is all that’s really left of us.”

Dean was studying the man intently. “The fire,” he said gruffly, nodding his head. “I remember hearing about that. Happened right before Cas and I moved here.” Castiel shot him a meaningful look when Dean didn’t seem like he would continue with his line of thought, but the hunter got the message and cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m…sorry. About your family. I know what it’s like.”

“You do?” Derek asked, his tone not accusatory but simply curious, and Stiles’ gut sank as he realized he hadn’t even told Derek how much in common he and his pop actually had….

“My mother died in a house fire when I was four,” Dean explained curtly. It wasn’t something he talked about. Ever. Not even to Stiles, who’d only gotten bits and pieces of the story from his Uncle Sammy one night when the older man had been completely smashed.

“Oh,” Derek said softly, broccoli forgotten on the end of his fork. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Not many do,” the hunter replied with a tight smile and a wave of his fork. “So. How’s the roast?”

Stiles had yet to touch any of the food on his plate, which was probably cold anyway, and was surprised to see Derek’s nearly half gone. When had he had a chance to eat during all this?

“Delicious,” Derek said with a genuine smile in Castiel’s direction. “It’s been a while since I had anything…home-cooked.”

Stiles suppressed a laugh with a coughing fit, which earned him strange looks from his parents.

“Thank you,” Stiles’ dad said appreciatively. “You’re welcome over anytime, Derek.” Dean’s jaw clenched at the offer, but Castiel’s hand moved to rest on the man’s forearm, and all tension broke free.

“Sure,” Dean agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Anytime, I guess…that doesn’t pertain to the bedroom area.”

“ _God_ , Pop,” Stiles breathed, hiding his face in his hands.

Castiel chose that moment to stand and begin clearing plates. “Who would like some pie?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles collapsed on his bed, slinging an arm over his eyes and groaning loudly.

Dinner hadn’t been…awful, he supposed. Not as bad as it could have been, anyway. Pop had only asked one other awkward-beyond-belief question during dessert that’d had Stiles praying for a bolt of lightning to strike him down—“So how far into the future do you think this _yet_ is in your relationship?”—which had really only started a bout of hysterical laughing that had them near tears and choking on pie, and Dad’s clear acceptance of them had come at the end of the evening when he’d taken Derek aside on the porch and shared a few words that seemed to calm the werewolf considerably.

Derek wouldn’t tell Stiles what his father had said to him, but he had assured the teen that it hadn’t been threatening in the least…though they might want to cool it on the late-night visits in Stiles’ bedroom. Just for a while.

Swinging his arm down to thump on the bed, he stared at the ceiling for a long moment before taking a hesitant breath.

“Uncle Gabe?” he called quietly. He was always a little cautious about when he called his uncle, especially after he’d inadvertently interrupted a rather heated moment between the archangel and Uncle Sammy. The teen hadn’t been able to build up the courage to call for him for near a month….

“Um,” Stiles continued, “I understand if you’re…busy. I just need someone to talk to. When you have a moment.”

The end of his bed dipped with a sudden weight, and he lifted his head to find Gabriel sitting cross-legged with a sucker in his mouth and an open bag of Skittles being held out in his direction.

“Hey, Kiddo, what’s going on?”

Stiles sat up with a relieved sigh and gratefully took the offered candy. “Thanks. Uh, Derek…Derek came to dinner tonight.”

“Ah,” Gabe said with a knowing nod. “Met good ol’ Dad and Pop, huh?”

“Unfortunately…Did you know that Dad knew about us?”

“He’s an angel, kid. Fallen or not he’s still got incredible power. And it doesn’t take much to notice how disgustingly smitten you’ve been lately.”

“Smitten?” Stiles asked indignantly around a gob of chewed Skittles. “ _Smitten_?”

Gabriel smiled around the sucker in his mouth. “You like him.”

The teen sat back and considered his uncle with narrowed eyes. “Yeah,” he agreed.”

“A lot?”

“Yeah.”

“Like the kind of ‘like’ that could turn into…something more?”

“We’ve only been dating a _month_.”

“So?” Gabriel laughed. “I knew the _moment_ I met your Uncle Sammy.”

The Skittles in Stiles fist clacked together as his hand stopped halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, kid. _Love at first sight_ is corny as hell.” A small, strange smile took the angel’s lips. “But it exists. Has since the beginning of time. Why do you think Adam and Eve worked out so well?”

“I thought they were cast out of paradise because of it.”

“True,” the angel relented. “Adam probably wouldn’t have eaten the fruit that Eve offered if he hadn’t trusted her—if he hadn’t _loved_ her.”

“And look what that got them,” Stiles snorted, popping Skittles like pills that could take memories of the night far, far away. “A lifetime of pain and misery.”

“Pain’s part of life, Stiles. For everyone and every _thing_. It’s not purely inflicted on humans.” Gabriel shifted so that his legs were stretched out beside the teen’s. “And misery? Not so sure about that one.”

“They were kicked out of the only place they knew as _home_ ,” Stiles argued. “They had to fend for themselves, alone in the _whole freaking world_. What about that doesn’t scream misery?”

“They had each other,” the angel said softly. “They were _together_.” Stiles was quiet, and Gabriel sighed before speaking again, pulling the sucker from the corner of his mouth. “I’m not saying that life isn’t full of misery, that life doesn’t suck sometimes.” Stiles gave his uncle a pointed look. “Okay, _a lot_ of the time. Believe me, I’ve had my share.”

“Really? _You_?” the teen asked incredulously.

“Everyone does. But having someone to _share_ that life with, someone to go through all the shit that’s thrown at you…Kinda the point of living, don’t you think?”

Stiles stared at his uncle for a long, _long_ moment, his heart thumping painfully as he slowly built the courage to ask his next question. “Were my parents happy?” He swallowed as he watched Gabriel’s soft smile fall from his face. “My real parents?”

The angel cocked his head. “Yeah, Stiles. Your parents were happy. They were good people. They had each other.” The smile returned. “And they had you.”

“Would we have been happy together? If they had lived?”

“Are you happy _now_?” Gabriel sidetracked, the sucker twirling between his fingers. Stiles paused, and his uncle leaned forward, a concerned look on his face as he placed a hand on the teen’s knee. “Stiles?”

“Yeah, Uncle Gabe,” Stiles said with a half-hearted nod, his voice raspy. “I’m happy.”

Gabriel didn’t look like he believed him. Which was okay, he guessed. Because Stiles didn’t exactly believe himself either.


	4. Another Chat. And an Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because if he’s this great, amazing, awesome guy that everyone seems to like when they actually get to know him…then what the hell is he doing with someone like me?”

“Danny, have you ever introduced a guy to your parents before?” Stiles asked from his bed, absently flipping the page of his chemistry book. It was marked and high-lighted within an inch of its life. Looks like his parents would be paying for another text book this year…. “I mean, a guy you were dating?

“Sure,” Danny replied with a shrug, chewing on his pen and spinning in the chair at Stiles’ desk.

“How did you…feel? Afterward?”

“I dunno. Sort of relieved, I guess.”

Stiles sighed and scrubbed at his face with his fingertips. When he looked up again, Danny was staring at him.

“Why?” the other teen asked before his eyes, suddenly, went very wide. “Did you have Derek over for dinner? To meet your dads?”

Falling back against his pillows, Stiles sighed. “Yes,” he admitted sullenly.

“And? How did it go?” Danny was across the room in an instant, sitting in the exact same spot that Uncle Gabe had been in last night.

“…Fine. I think.”

“Come on,” Danny wheedled. “No drama? Nothing? _Something_ had to have happened. I know your pop, dude. He scares _everyone_.”

“Yeah, I guess. I mean, there were questions. Questions you don’t _ever_ want your parents asking.”

“Seriously?” the other teen asked with an incredulous laugh. He was enjoying Stiles’ pain far more than he should be. “What did you say?”

“I didn’t say _anything_!” Stiles said, sitting up abruptly and throwing his hands up briefly. “Derek…He totally knew how to handle it, and I just sat there like a jackass.”

“I thought that’s how those things were supposed to go.”

“No, it’s not. I had a-million-and-one things ready to say if my pop started in on him, like I knew he would. It’s basically the only way I can defend him, you know? I’m not really all that intimidating _physically_ , if you hadn’t noticed.”

“I had,” Danny chimed in helpfully.

“And Derek just….” Stiles sighed, his shoulders slumping and his face falling in defeat. “He was awesome. My parents like him. Everything’s fine.”

“Why does it sound like you don’t believe that?”

“Because….” Stiles had to think long and hard about his words before he said them, gesturing weakly to convey his point. “Because if he’s this great, amazing, awesome guy that everyone seems to like when they actually get to know him…” He closed his eyes. “…then what the hell is he doing with someone like me?”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek did not like the way that the conversation in Stiles’ bedroom was going, especially since it wasn’t technically meant for his ears. He was in the Winchester’s backyard. Or, more accurately, he was in the wooded area just beyond the Winchester’s backyard. Hey, Castiel had told him he was welcome whenever; he didn’t specify whether he had to be in the actual house or not. And since the _other_ Mr. Winchester wasn’t so keen on him being in Stiles’ bedroom, this would have to do.

 _Creeper!_ the voice in his head—which sounded horrifyingly like Stiles—screeched at a volume that made the werewolf outwardly flinch.

“You know, you’re really taking this stalker-boyfriend thing to a whole different level,” Erica said from behind him, sauntering up to his side without a single noise. They were getting better, his wolves, as their training continued. Derek could barely keep his pride in check nowadays.

“Not stalking,” he countered, breaking his staring contest with the house to sweep his gaze out over the neighborhood and then the woods. “Keeping an eye on. There’s a difference.”

“Not a very big one,” the young woman said with a cheeky grin. “We haven’t seen that alpha pack in _months_ , Derek. They aren’t coming back.”

“Not if they know what’s good for them,” Derek growled, but he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach, the hair that rose on his arms and the back of his neck. “Stiles and I weren’t together then. I didn’t have this… _weakness_ that they could easily exploit.”

Erica sighed and turned her back to the house, waiting until Derek was looking at her before speaking again. “Having feelings for someone is _not_ a weakness,” she argued, “especially feelings for someone like _that_.” She gestured towards the house with her head and smiled again. “Stiles knows how to take care of himself. And he has a whole pack willing to risk their lives for the mate of their alpha.”

Derek bared his teeth. “He is _not_ my mate.”

A finely-groomed eyebrow rose high on the teen’s forehead, and she smiled past her _red-red-red_ lipstick as her eyes flickered down to Derek’s mouth then back up to his eyes. “Whatever you say, bossman.” She disappeared into the woods before Derek could think up a decent retort…Though, really, _was_ there a decent retort to anything Erica said? Ever? Her bark was definitely worse than her bite.

The sound of Danny packing his things away and telling Stiles that he had to leave drew Derek’s attention back to the house, and he sighed. “Finally,” he breathed, stepping from the woods into the Winchester’s yard and freezing almost immediately.

No. No, no, no. Not here. _No._

“Well, well,” a breathy, snake-like voice said from over his right shoulder. “The mate of an alpha. Quite a find, indeed.”

Derek didn’t think. His claws were out and he was turning, swiping, slicing flesh from the face of whoever dared threaten Stiles. The _whoever_ in question was another alpha, twice Derek’s age by the look of him, and, unfortunately, also twice Derek’s size. The alpha snarled as several deep gashes appeared on his left cheek, blood coating the stubbled skin before the cuts could heal.

Instead of attacking, the alpha merely turned an enraged look on the younger man, eyes a deep red and teeth elongated into fangs. “No matter,” he growled, his tone so low and guttural that Derek almost couldn’t understand the words. “He’s ours now.”

A scream pierced the haze of the evening air, and Derek whipped around towards the house. “Stiles,” he whispered, sprinting then jumping onto the roof and maneuvering his way into the window.

Stiles sat crouched on the floor, clutching at his upper arm, where a garish wound was spurting blood and staring horrified at the alpha looming over him. The werewolf was transformed completely, arm raised to strike and claws glinting with blood.

Derek breathed in through flared nostrils, tightened his abdomen. He felt his vocal chords shift as he let the change take him, as he hunched his back and let loose the most fearsome howl he’d ever made.

0 o 0 o 0

The house shook with the noise, and Stiles didn’t have to look up to know who that noise belonged to, didn’t have to wonder whom that noise was for. He almost expected his parents, who were halfway across the world in Italy on some date night— _friggin'_ angels, _man_ —to hear the howl that his boyfriend made. The state of California, at least, was now alerted of the ass-whooping that was about to ensue.

Strangely enough, the fear that he’d felt when this foreign alpha had been about to claw him to shreds seeped out of him…and into the stranger, apparently. However this other alpha had been expecting the night to transpire, it obviously hadn’t been like this—like someone had _intentionally_ not told him he was attacking another alpha’s boyfriend…on his own territory.

Derek got lower to the ground, one hand reaching out to rest against the carpet as he took, in Stiles opinion, the scariest freaking attack-stance ever. Yeah, no one was scarier than his boyfriend. _No one_...except maybe his pop. And his dad on a bad day.

The other alpha, who Stiles was very near naming Pee-Pants because that’s what he looked like he very much wanted to do, hesitated a moment before puffing out his chest and making the extraordinarily stupid decision to accept Derek’s challenge. They circled the small space of Stiles’ room until Derek was finally in front of the teen, reaching behind him without taking his eyes off of the other werewolf to grip Stiles’ uninjured arm and pull him up before slowly backing them both into a corner.

It was a risky move on Derek’s part, Stiles knew. Sure, he was able to protect Stiles without worrying about an attack from behind them, but there was also little room for escape in the event that things didn’t work out in their favor. Another crash echoed through the room, and suddenly there were _two_ alphas bearing down on them, the second one almost twice as big as Derek.

Shit.

He hadn’t wanted to call on his parents until they absolutely needed them. Exposing them to the supernatural…more than necessary…was just cruel and unusual after they’d been living such a normal life for so long. Well, _normal_ in the sense that they only had to fight monsters once or twice a year when Uncle Sammy and Uncle Gabe needed a hand with a big nasty. And jeopardizing Derek’s, as well as the entire pack’s, secret wasn’t exactly something Stiles had been particularly keen on doing.

But, you know, desperate times, and all…

“Dad,” he called weakly. Derek tensed under his touch but didn’t try to stop him, so he cleared his throat and called again, this time loud and clear. “ _Dad_!”

Castiel and Dean appeared instantly, the angel’s eyes alight with anger as he set his gaze on the two werewolves currently threatening Stiles and Derek. A bright light flared, forcing the teen to close his eyes and duck his head against Derek’s back. He was clutching the fabric at his boyfriend’s shoulder so fiercely, he could feel his fingernails piercing the shirt and digging into his own palm.

The light dissipated, revealing only he, Derek (who had, thankfully, shifted back), and his parents were left in the bedroom. He blinked a few times and let his eyes adjust before looking over Derek’s shoulder at the other two. Castiel’s face was passive again, his gaze roaming over both Stiles and Derek for injuries and stopping on the tattered chunks of skin hanging from the teen’s bicep.

“Stiles,” his dad said calmly, holding out a hand and motioning him forward. “Come here. Let me see your arm.” 

But Stiles couldn’t move. Because now he was looking at his pop, and his pop was looking back at the both of them, huddled in the corner of the room as they were, with one of his patented murderous looks. The teen had never been on the receiving end of one of these looks, and he doubted very highly that it was _him_ that Dean was looking at. It was a look that told Stiles that his father had seen more than just the werewolves that had attacked them.

It was a look that said there was much more trouble to come.

And just like that…

…Stiles’ dads knew his boyfriend was a werewolf.


	5. A Freakout. Then a Family Meeting…Or Possibly a Meeting of the Family.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No offense, Mr. Winchester, but it's not really you I'm worried about."

“Stiles, your arm,” Castiel insisted, and the teen suddenly became very aware of how much his arm definitely hurt. Yes, much hurt. Much, much hurt. Ow.

He stepped out from behind Derek, who was still tense and wary—though whether it was because he thought there might be another alpha attack or that his parents might actually attack him, Stiles couldn’t be sure.

“You should go,” he said quietly.

“So soon?” Dean asked dangerously, gaze still locked on Derek.

“He’s busy,” Stiles offered meekly as he approached Castiel, arm outstretched. Before the angel could do more than bring his hand up, three more blurs contorted themselves through his window and landed with crunching noises on glass and snapped wood. His dad raised his arm quickly in their direction, sparks of light beginning to fizzle in his hand until Stiles leaped forward and grabbed his sleeve, bringing his arm down.

“No, no!” he said, stepping in front of the new intruders. “I know them. They’re good. They’re okay, Dad. Really.” He turned slightly towards the three. “Right, guys?”

Isaac, Boyd, and Erica all nodded their agreement, albeit reluctantly. They looked confused more than anything.

“What happened?” Erica asked, taking in the damage.

Stiles offered his parents a quick glance. Dean was getting closer to his _I’m-gonna-kill-something_ look, and Castiel was starting to look frustrated about the amount of strangers in his home. “Derek can fill you guys in. Right now…you need to go.”

“Stiles, your arm,” Isaac said in concern, starting to reach out. His dad beat him to it, placing only two fingers against the damaged skin before Stiles felt no pain whatsoever. His shirt sleeve was still in tatters, but the skin beneath was flawless and, thankfully, scratch-free.

“All better, see?” Stiles waved the arm around for emphasis. “Perks of having an angel for a dad. Now, get the hell out of here before you find out what the _other one_ does.”

The three young pups backed towards the window, offering Dean a wary glance, but they still looked to Derek for the final word. And when he nodded, it was all they could do to scurry out the window without leaving more of a mess than was already there to begin with.

“Stiles,” Castiel said carefully, and the teen turned back to his father, startled when he found Dean had moved from brooding by the door to brooding at his husband’s side. “I think we need to talk.”

“Really? ‘Cause I always figured that talk was—”

“I know you share your father’s fondness of humor and sarcastic quips at inappropriate times,” his dad interrupted, “but now seems the time for a serious conversation.” Dean was smoldering at his side, but Castiel may as well have been in a field of friggin’ butterflies for all that he was reacting to it. “Your father and I would appreciate your cooperation.” He set a stern look on Derek, who was still backed against the wall. “Please.”

Derek swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You can cut the _sir_ crap,” Dean said harshly, and Derek actually flinched. “How about you start with what the hell you are.”

A strange silence filled the room before Stiles dared say something. “Pop…He’s a—”

“He’s not a werewolf.” Dean’s lips pressed together tightly when Derek’s eyebrows drew together. “I’ve seen werewolves, kid. And unless that little shifting trick was just for shits and giggles, you ain’t the real deal. Trust me.”

Castiel stepped forward, narrowing his eyes as if studying Derek. “Come here,” he said softly, raising both his hands, attempting a smile when the man hesitated. “I won’t hurt you, Derek.”

“No offense, Mr. Winchester,” Derek said breathlessly, “but it’s not really you I’m worried about.”

“You should be,” Dean countered but couldn’t hide the quirk at one corner of his mouth.

Swallowing hard, Derek took a hesitant step forward, then another and another, until he was standing little more than a couple feet from Stiles’ dad. Castiel closed the distance smoothly, placing his hands on either side of the man’s head. It only took a moment, and Derek didn’t look like he felt anything unusual, but Stiles held his breath anyway.

“Strange,” Castiel said, releasing Derek and stepping back with a scrutinizing gaze. “Not quite a werewolf but certainly close in relation to the species.”

“So, what, a skin walker?” Dean asked, as if he were discussing his next hunt. _Oh, God, please let him not be talking about his next hunt._

“Again, a close DNA marker. But not quite a skin walker, either,” Castiel explained. “Something in between, I believe. Perhaps interspecies breeding?”

“Guys!” Stiles said abruptly, waving his arms in Derek’s direction. He could see that the conversation was starting to make him uncomfortable. “Hello, boyfriend _right here_.”

“This _thing_ is not your boyfriend, Stiles,” Dean said matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and turning towards the bedroom door. Stiles didn’t miss the hurt look that crossed Derek’s face, and anger suddenly poured into him like steaming water. “And if it knows what’s good for it, it’ll leave before I have a chance to find something silver and knife-shaped.”

“Pop!” Stiles shouted indignantly, taking a step forward.

But Derek stopped him, snagging his wrist and shaking his head. “Stiles, don’t. He’s right. I’ll leave.”

The teen pulled from Derek’s grip roughly. “The fuck you will,” he snarled, stomping after his father.

“Language, Stiles,” Castiel called after him, as if this were just another family tiff. The sounds of reconstruction echoed down the hall— _great, one of the most important freaking conversations of his life, and his dad was fixing the damn windows_ —as Stiles jumped down the stairs two at a time, nearly losing his footing on the last step.

Derek caught him around the middle, and when Stiles looked back, he saw how pale and pained Derek looked. Had he been hurt? He didn’t look like he was bleeding anywhere.

The front door opened, and their attention was drawn to it. Dean stood beside it, hand leaving the doorknob as he stared at Derek expectantly. Castiel appeared at the top of the stairs and began making his way down towards them.

“Dad,” Stiles said desperately. “Dad, _please_.”

Derek sighed and righted Stiles. “Stiles, don’t. I brought danger into your house. They have a right to want me gone.”

“Not before we explain!” Stiles argued, grabbing the man’s hand as he made his way towards the door.

Derek stopped, squaring his shoulders and facing Stiles’ pop with as much courage as it seemed he could muster. But he just looked so…tired. And defeated. Stiles did not like that look on Derek Hale. Not one freaking bit.

“Mr. Winchester, I hope you know that this won’t stop me from seeing Stiles.”

“Oh, it had better,” Dean said dangerously, crossing his arms and grinding his teeth, “or I’ll _make_ it stop.”

“ _Pop_ ,” Stiles pleaded in one last ditch-effort, “please, you can’t do this! Just _listen_ —”

“I’m _done_ listening, Stiles.” Dean shrugged off the hand that Castiel put on his shoulder. “Either _it_ leaves, or I go get my shotgun. It’s that simple.”

Derek turned to Stiles and squeezed the hand in his. “It’ll be all right,” he murmured with a small but genuine smile. Stiles wanted to believe him so, so badly.

“ _Out_!” the hunter yelled.

And then Derek was gone, the warmth in Stiles’ hand fading all too quickly.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek ran.

He let his senses take hold, turned himself over to the wolf. No more thoughts of Stiles’ broken-hearted look as he’d left, of the way Mr. Winchester had looked at him like he was something he’d found under his boot, of how he’d made a promise that he wouldn’t be able to keep.

No more except

 _runrunrun_.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles stared at the front door for a long moment before his pop reached forward and slammed it shut.

“I can’t believe you did that,” Stiles said numbly. Numb. Numb. So, so numb. He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel. _Anything_. “I can’t…I can’t believe….”

“Stiles?” Castiel asked carefully, placing a hand on the teen’s shoulder.

Stiles pulled away quickly, turning to face his parents with what he hoped was a look of betrayal and hurt and anger- _anger-ANGER._

“How could you?” he demanded, his throat too tight to emit anything more than a choked whisper. He could feel his rib cage tightening around his lungs, could feel the air around him getting thinner, and his eyes prickled with the beginnings of tunnel vision.

Shit.

He hadn’t had a panic attack in _years_. And this one was building _fast_.

Double shit.

“That thing is a _monster_ , Stiles,” Dean said loudly, pointing at the door accusingly as if Derek were still standing there. “It’s _killed_ people, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let something like _that_ into my house and date my _son_!”

Some _thing_. Not some _one_.

Stiles gulped in a mouthful of air, as much as he could manage. “Pop, I…I love him.”

“No, you don’t, Stiles,” Dean stated matter-of-factly, turning and starting towards the den. “You’re seventeen. You can’t be in love.”

“You don’t…You don’t _know_ —” Stiles started weakly, the coil around his chest tightening.

“The hell I don’t!” Dean interrupted. “I’m your father. I know what’s best for you, and it is _not_ that _thing_.”

“Dean,” Castiel admonished, his brow creasing.

The hunter spun around and pointed at Stiles, eyes alight with something foreign and frightening. The teen had heard about his fathers’ time in Purgatory, knew that it had changed them both and that sometimes…sometimes something that just _wasn’t_ his pop leaked through when he didn’t have control of himself.

“And, so help me, if I even hear word that _that_ has been around you, I will kill it. I swear to God, Stiles, I will put a bullet in its heart and _between its eyes for good measure_.”

“ _Dean_!” the angel shouted, and the world shook around them. Lightning flashed in the sky, and the shadow of Castiel’s wings was thrown against the wall behind him. 

Dean took a step back, his eyes wide and his hands trembling as he looked around the room like he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there. When his gaze settled on Cas, and then Stiles, regret was apparent on his face. “Stiles….”

The teen shook his head, backing away a few steps before turning and racing up the stairs. His throat closed painfully, tears sprang to his eyes and clouded his vision. But he ran until he reached his room, slamming the door, locking it, and leaning back against it before sliding to the floor. Each agonizing breath he drew in got shallower and shallower, burning him from the inside out. It was worse, so much worse, than any attack he’d had before.

“Stiles?” The doorknob jiggled. “Stiles, let us in!”

“Stiles, please….”

“Get in there, Cas.”

“Dean, I think the last thing our son needs right now is an invasion of privacy.”

“ _Screw_ privacy! He’s having a fucking panic attack, now get—”

Stiles covered his ears and lowered his head to his knees. “Uncle Gabe,” he choked, forcing as deep a breath as his damaged lungs would allow. “ _Uncle Gabe_!”

A violent gust of wind announced the archangel’s presence, and without a word he crouched beside the teen and gathered him in his arms. Gabriel rapped his knuckles hard against the bedroom door, silencing the argument on the other side.

“I’ve got this, guys,” he said harshly, stretching his legs out on the floor and pulling Stiles against him into a more comfortable position. “I’ve got you, Stiles. It’s okay.” One hand clenched the fabric of Stiles’ t-shirt at the back while the other spread wide on his chest. Warmth seeped through his uncle’s fingers, sank deep under Stiles’ skin and drove away the pain and anxiety and numbness that the panic attack had brought on.

Unfortunately, it also made room for the feelings that had started the panic attack to begin with—anger and sadness and betrayal and fear. Stiles buried his face in the crook of his uncle’s neck, taking in a much-needed breath and releasing a sob that nowhere _near_ expressed the ache he was feeling.

He didn’t know how long he cried, how long his uncle let him use his shirt as a snot rag (which was totally disgusting, ew), but when he finally found the strength to lift his head, Gabriel was there with a comforting gaze and a conjured glass of cold water.

“Thanks,” he said roughly, spilling some down his chin after a few decent gulps.

“No problem,” Gabriel said, snapping the glass away and offering him a handkerchief. “Haven’t been on snot patrol since you were four, kid.”

Stiles forced a laugh and wiped his face with a grimace. “Yeah, sorry. I, uh….” Tears pricked the backs of his eyes again threateningly. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” his uncle said, lifting Stiles’ chin with a finger until their eyes met, “you don’t ever have to apologize for this, Stiles. Not ever.”

With a weak smile, Stiles nodded, sniffling and taking a few breaths before scooting out of Gabriel’s lap (seventeen-freaking-years-old, a good few inches taller, and he was huddled in his uncle’s lap like a child…just great) and settling beside him, shoulder to shoulder. “He, uh…He found out—Pop did—about Derek.” Gabriel nodded like he’d already suspected as much. “He said…He said he’d k-kill him…if he ever saw him around here again.”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it, buddy,” the archangel comforted. “Dads say stuff like that all the time. You can’t take it personally. He’ll come around.”

“You didn’t see him, Uncle Gabe,” Stiles whispered, setting a wide-eyed look on his uncle. “You didn’t see the way he looked when he said it…. He _will_ kill Derek if he sees him again. And I…I won’t….” His chin trembled. “I don’t know what to do.”

Gabriel sighed, staring at him a moment before saying, “Stay here.” He raised his fingers to snap himself out of the room, but Stiles was quick to grab his arm.

“Don’t,” he said desperately. “Please, I can’t…I don’t want to be alone.”

With a quick snap, Sam suddenly stood in the center of Stiles’ bedroom, a dark green towel wrapped loosely around his waist and a toothbrush in his mouth. He stopped moving the toothbrush back and forth abruptly and looked around the room until his gaze fell on the two sitting by the door. Hands going up in defeat as bitch face number fourteen (yes, Stiles had sorted, categorized, and filed every one of his uncle’s bitch faces) made an appearance, he asked “Re-rry?” around the toothbrush while gesturing to himself, but Gabriel paid no heed.

The archangel curled his fingers around the back of Stiles’ neck and gave a light squeeze. “I’ll be right outside the door, kiddo. Just gonna have a little chat with Papa Dean-O, all right? Call if you need me.” Another snap, and Gabriel was gone.

Stiles stared at the spot where his uncle had been for a second longer before turning to his other, taller, extremely half-naked uncle standing in the middle of his bedroom. “Hey…Uncle Sammy,” he said awkwardly, sighing with exhaustion and averting his gaze before bending his knees and wrapping his arms around them.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam took the toothbrush out of his mouth and studied his nephew for a moment. “You all right, Stiles?”

The teen snorted and wiped his nose on his jeans. “No, not really.”

The part-time hunter, part-time law student, full-time uncle glanced up to the door, where hushed, angry whispers were filtering through into the bedroom. “You wanna…talk about it?”

Stiles sighed. “I’m sorta dating a werewolf.”

Sam sat down on the bed and nodded. “Okay. Um…what does ‘ _sorta_ ’ mean?”

An incredulous look formed on the teen’s face, and Sam was immediately reminded of Bobby and the way he’d always given the boys that kind of look right before he called them _idjits_. It stung a little bit to think of the friend that they’d lost so long ago, a friend that Stiles should have been able to meet and terrorize and call _Grandpa Bobby_.

“Of all the words,” Stiles said, breaking Sam from his thoughts, “you could have picked from that sentence….”

Sam shrugged and repressed a shiver as water dripped from his hair and slithered down his back. “I guess I could have gone with _‘I’m’_.”

The young man rolled his eyes but smiled and even laughed a little. “At least have the decency to go with _‘dating’_.” He covered his face with his hands and made a frustrated noise. “Is Pop _really_ the only one that didn’t know?”

“Dean’s usually the last to know about a lot of things,” Sam admitted with a hint of poorly-placed amusement. “So. What _does_ this _‘sorta’_ mean?”

“It means…that Pop freaking scared him off with his threats to _kill_ him, even though I admitted that I _love_ him, and Derek just totally took off, and now I don’t know where he is or if he’s even coming back, and there’s _freaking alphas_ in town trying to kill me because they think I’m Derek’s _mate_ , or something, and no matter which way you look at it, someone’s gonna _freaking die_ in this situation, and I’m not altogether certain it’s gonna be the kind of death that Dad or Uncle Gabe can easily fix.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles dropped his head into his arms and let himself breathe.

“Wow,” his uncle said quietly, the bed creaking as he shifted. “That’s a hell of a _‘sorta’_ you’ve got there, Stiles.”

“Tell me about it,” the teen huffed, raising his head and waiting for Sam to say something more. Because he would. Say something.

More.

“Okay,” his uncle started, true to form, one hand rubbing his towel-clad thigh as he looked up into a corner of the room and stared thoughtfully at it. “Let’s take this one thing at a time, huh?” Thank God for _Uncle Sammy Logic_. “Dean threatened to kill him?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirmed.

“Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Dean threatens to kill _everything_. He’s threatened to kill me more than once. And he stabbed your dad in the heart the first time they met.”

Stiles snorted. “Yeah. He tries to tell that one at neighborhood bar-b-ques. It doesn’t work out so well for him.”

“I can imagine.” His uncle smirked. “All right, second…You love him?”

“I do,” Stiles said without hesitation, something warm and light wrapping around his chest and holding tight.

Sam smiled. “Good. That’s good, Stiles. I’m glad for you.”

“Really?” the teen asked hesitantly. “No _you’re-seventeen-and-too-young-to-know-what’s-best-for-you_ speech?”

His uncle winced at the words. “Is that what your pop said?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Seriously, Dean?” Sam muttered, shaking his head and sighing. “Well, whatever he told you, I can assure you it’s only because he cares.” Stiles rolled his eyes, but Sam held up a hand. “Just hear me out, okay? Dean…Dean’s had it rough. Our dad was kind of a control freak. Wouldn’t even let us take on our own hunts until we were _well_ into our twenties.”

Stiles barely dared to breathe. Stories of his Grandpa John rarely made it past _‘He was a good man and a good hunter and then he died, the end.’_

“And when I left for school, Dean was all he had, was the only thing he probably felt he could control anymore,” Sam continued. “So, yeah, your pop’s got some issues in the _control department_. But he only does it for the same reasons that our dad did it. He knows what’s out there, and he’s scared that something is going to happen to you if he isn’t there to stop it.”

“So how do I make him see? How do I tell him that I can take care of myself? And that Derek will take care of me, too?” Stiles pleaded desperately. “How did he make your dad see?”

Sam shook his and sighed. “He didn’t. Our dad died to save Dean’s life…And your pop has never forgiven himself for that. He doesn’t want anyone to have to go through what we did.” A heavy silence hung between them before his uncle went on with the conversation like he hadn’t just bared his soul—and maybe just a bit of Dean’s. “Okay. So…You said Derek left?”

“Yeah.”

“Because Dean was threatening him?”

“With death. Yes.”

His uncle’s eyebrows rose and fell briefly. “Smart guy,” he said with an approving nod. “At least he had the sense to get out before Dean made things worse.” He smiled reassuringly. “And trust me, Stiles. He’ll come back.”

Stiles frowned. “How do you know?”

Sam glanced at the door, as if he were looking through it at a certain someone on the other side. “Oh, I just…do.” His smile lessened some as the next thought occurred to him. “Alphas? Like, a _pack_ of alphas? Here?”

“Yeah. Thought we took care of them the last time they were in town, but apparently it only made them angry enough to re-group and come back for more.”

“ _Last_ time?” Sam asked in alarm. “Dean never said anything—”

“He doesn’t know,” the teen interrupted. “But, surprisingly enough, being the son of an ex-hunter suits me pretty well.”

A look almost like _pride_ passed over Sam’s features, and his uncle murmured something that sounded vaguely like _family business_ before nodding and asking, “What were they doing in town the first time?”

“Derek had just become alpha—”

“ _Derek’s an alpha_?” Sam spluttered.

“—and I guess they wanted to meet the new head-honcho in town, or something. Maybe get him to join their pack.”

“ _Derek_?” Sam asked again, his eyes still wide.

“Yeah.” Stiles shrugged. What was the big deal? He wasn’t good enough for an alpha? “He killed his uncle, became the alpha, and started his own pack.”

“Killed his—”

“Don’t worry, the guy was a total douche. And he came back to life, anyway, so it’s not _that_ big of a deal…You gonna get a nosebleed or something, Uncle Sammy? If you are, I prefer it not be on my bed. I just cleaned my comforter.”

Sam stared at Stiles for a long moment in what the teen hoped was only slack-jawed amazement. “Holy shit,” the man said finally. “Holy freaking—Stiles, this…this goes way above my pay-grade as an uncle.”

Stiles shook his head in panic. “No, no, no! Uncle Sam, you can’t—”

“I’m not!” Sam assured him, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying I’m against your relationship or that Derek is a bad person…But—”

“Please don’t,” the teen whispered, closing his eyes tight as if he could shut the world out—and his uncle’s words with it.

“You should listen to him,” Sam said despite the plea. “Hear him out, at least.”

“Like he’s heard _me_ out, right?” Stiles demanded angrily, tears rushing to his eyes again.

“Alphas are _big_ business, Stiles,” the man warned, his tone switching from _warm-loving-understanding uncle_ to _this-is-war hunter_ almost faster than Stiles realized. “ _Big, bad, angry_ business. It’s not something you want to get tangled up in unless you _really_ know what you’re doing.”

“I do,” Stiles assured eagerly. “I know how to handle this. I’ve been doing this since freshman year, ever since—” He cut himself off abruptly, unsure about whether this secret was really his to tell, or not.

“Ever since what?” Sam asked with a raised eyebrow. “Ever since Scott got bitten?”

The teen’s jaw dropped slightly. “How did you—”

“Stiles, we’re _hunters_. It’s what we do.”

“ _Retired_ hunters,” Stiles corrected sullenly.

“You know that being a _retired_ hunter just means we do it less often, right? We still hunt. It’s not something you ever really…stop.” Sam’s eyes went distant on the last word, and he looked very, very regretful about something. “You weren’t supposed to be exposed to this. You weren’t supposed to be dragged into… _any_ of this.”

“I know. Can’t hide from something you were raised in, though, right? Nature versus Nurture?”

His uncle sighed in defeat. “Yeah. I guess not.” Straightening his posture a bit, which was odd, considering he was still only in a towel, he asked, “Do the Argents know about the alphas?”

Stiles started to nod but backtracked enough to ask, “How do you know about the Argents?”

“They’re an old hunting family, go way back like the Campbells. Our families have crossed paths a few times. I’ll pay them a visit, see what they know.”

“Be careful,” Stiles warned. “They’re into archery.”

Sam smiled. “Sounds like fun.”

“If you say so….”

“Stiles…No one’s gonna die, at least not the people you care about. We’re going to make sure of that.”

Stiles had the sinking feeling that he was being lied to…or that, at the very least, he wasn’t being told the whole truth. But he nodded anyway, happy to go along with the song-and-dance until the music stopped playing.


	6. A Long-Overdue Father-Son Chat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a bad idea; it was ammo, for Christ’s sake, and he was about to hand it to his seventeen-year-old son. Who would use it. Excessively. Inconveniently. And, more importantly, to get what he wanted, when he wanted it.

Dean was angry. At himself, mostly, which really wasn’t surprising. He often was, and it was usually in regards to his A+ parenting skills. Sometimes he felt as new to this as the day he’d found a squirming infant in the arms of its dead mother.

Cas was a natural, though. With everything (barring pop-culture references). But parenting, especially. He had known what to say when Stiles had been afraid of the monsters in his closet—the answer to which was not a loaded gun and a few encouraging words about shooting straight. He’d known how to handle bullies at school without threatening physical violence to elementary school students, and how to help with scrapes and cuts that he’d insisted should heal on their own so that Stiles wouldn’t depend on Cas to take away every little ache and pain.

The angel knew so much, and Dean knew next to nothing aside from what his _own_ poor excuse of a dad had forced him to learn so that he could take care of Sammy, and what the hell ever made him think that he could be a father?

“Dean,” Castiel interrupted his thoughts and gave him a knowing look.

Dean shifted in his spot against the wall outside Stiles room and shook his head. “Told you to stop using your friggin’ angel mojo on me, Cas.”

“I’m concerned.”

“You’re _always_ concerned.”

“I am concerned more than usual,” Cas admitted, and Dean had to bite his tongue to keep a bitter laugh from escaping. “I am concerned that you have not fully put the past behind you.”

The hunter clenched his jaw.

“Dean, Purgatory was _years_ ago,” Cas continued. “…And what Benny did—”

“He was messed up,” Dean interrupted, flinching at the mention of someone he’d actually put a great amount of effort into forgetting. “Purgatory affects everyone and everything that’s trapped there. You know that.” He took a breath and closed his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

“It might help Stiles understand if you did,” Cas said softly. “You were in _love_ with him, Dean.”

The hunter’s eyes flew open, and he stared wide-eyed and guilty at his husband for a long moment. His tongue was gluey and heavy in his mouth. Not that he had the words to say anything anyway. But the look Cas was giving him…

He knew.

“I’m not angry,” the angel assured him. “I wish you had trusted me enough to tell me. But I’m not angry.”

Dean swallowed, taking a breath to speak, to tell Cas that it had been a mistake, that he had thought he’d never seen him again, that he’d given up, lost faith, forgotten that Cas was strong, _so strong_ , and should have believed, should have known. There were a-million-and-one excuses on the tip of his tongue.

But Gabriel chose that moment to snap himself into the hall and glare at the two of them (mostly Dean) before a single thing could come out of his mouth. Which was probably just as well—Dean didn’t believe the lies, anyway.

“Is he okay?” the hunter demanded uneasily, looking over Gabriel’s shoulder as if he could see Stiles through the door.

Gabriel frowned, which was even more disconcerting than when he smiled—and the angel had some pretty disconcerting smiles, especially when it came to making mischief. “No,” he said simply, crossing his arms and leveling Dean with a smite-all look. “And I’m told that _you’re_ to thank for that.”

Dean pressed his lips together tightly, his nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath and clenched his fists at his side, reigning in the anger he could feel building in his gut. “Gabriel—”

“You know, you can’t keep blaming your bad parenting skills on Purgatory, Dean,” Gabe continued, his voice even but holding all the might and power of an archangel, _the Herald of the Lord_. “One of these days, you’re actually going to have to grow a pair and be a damn father.”

“I _am_ a father!” Dean hissed, stepping forward into the angel’s personal space and glowering down at him. The height difference was never as satisfying as it should be—Gabriel’s presence alone made up for the lack of it.

“Then quit pussy-footing around your _son_ and _act like it_.”

Dean felt the voice vibrate in his chest, his ribcage rattling and his stomach shivering. And it was enough to make him take a step back and frown for doing so. “Can I speak to my son, now?” he asked, annoyed to find his voice shook just a bit. “Or are you not finished pretending to be intimidating, yet?”

Gabriel said nothing more—though the look on his face said plenty—as he stepped to the side and allowed the hunter access to Stiles’ bedroom door. His fingers tingled as they wrapped around the doorknob, and he hesitated, raising his hand to knock instead.

“Stiles?” he called quietly, holding his breath and waiting. There was a shuffling against the door, someone moving out of the way, and he took that as permission to enter. Offering Cas one last glance—and receiving a tight, encouraging smile in return—he swallowed and entered the room.

Sam was sitting on the bed. In a towel.

Dean didn’t really have the mindset to be surprised—even about the towel. Gabe had transported both brothers in far, _far_ less to more public locations.

Stiles was on the bed beside him, looking at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the entire world. Like he wanted to look everywhere, _anywhere_ , but at his father. Like he was wishing he could be somewhere, _anywhere_ , but there. In that room. With Dean.

“Sam,” Dean greeted awkwardly. His brother waved half-heartedly with a stern look that clearly said _fix this_ before a snap was heard from the hallway, and Sam was gone. Dean looked back into the hall, finding Gabriel and Castiel equally as absent, and sighed, shutting the door and shifting his weight from foot to foot before building the courage to close the distance between Stiles and himself.

“Stiles—”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” The teen’s tone was quiet, but the amount of hurt in his voice was enough to saturate the air. Dean’s chest felt heavy and wrong.

“That’s fine,” he said carefully, seating himself on the bed at his son’s side and wincing when his knees and lower back popped. Getting older sucked. Their knees touched, and he was relieved when Stiles didn’t pull away. “You don’t have to talk. Just…listen. Please.” The young man said nothing, so Dean took that as his signal to continue.

“I was with someone, once,” he started, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. “Someone…who wasn’t your dad.”

Stiles perked up at that, actually turning to look at the hunter with raised eyebrows. “Like… _before_ you met Dad?” he asked tentatively, as if he was debating whether or not he really wanted to hear an answer he already knew.

Dean sighed. “No. Well, I was with other people before your dad, sure. But this person wasn’t… _before_.”

“Who? Who was it?”

“His name was Benny.”

The hunter hesitated after that. It was a bad idea; it was ammo, for Christ’s sake, and he was about to hand it to his seventeen-year-old son. Who would use it. Excessively. Inconveniently. And, more importantly, to get what he wanted, when he wanted it.

“And he was a vampire.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

No, seriously. He couldn’t. _Wouldn’t_. Partly because that would make his father a blatant hypocrite. And partly because—

“Seriously? _Seriously_?”

Dean rolled his eyes but remained silent while Stiles ranted a bit more, his anger renewed.

“You—I can’t—Wha—How—Seriously? _Seriously_?”

“Exactly how much longer are you going to repeat that word? Do I have enough time to run and grab a beer, ‘cause—”

“I can’t believe you!” Stiles raved, throwing his hands out and gesturing wildly. “I can’t believe how _freaking hypocritical_ you are!”

“Stiles—”

“And it’s _worse_ because you freaking…you freaking _cheated_ on Dad!” His legs kicked out restlessly. He wanted to stand, to pace, to jump out the window and _runrunrun_. This was wrong—this was so much _wronger_ than wrong! “Does Dad even _know_?”

“He does,” Dean admitted, and Stiles found a foreign look on his father’s face.

Guilt, maybe? Good. _Good_!

Stiles had never hated anyone in his entire life. And he certainly wasn’t going to start now, least of all with his pop (not yet, anyway). But he was really close. Really, _really_ close.

And he didn’t like that feeling at all.

Stiles closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. “So what happened? Where is he?”

His pop took a long time to answer, and when he finally did, it was not at _all_ what Stiles had been expecting. “I killed him.”

“Wh-Why?” the teen asked gently, his hand itching to reach out, to comfort, but his mind wasn’t there yet. He couldn’t get his pop’s voice out of his head.

 

_//“He’s a monster.”//_

_//“I’ll be damned if I’m going to let something like that into my house and date my son!”//_

_//“You’re seventeen. You can’t be in love.”//_

_//“I’m your father. I know what’s best for you, and it is not that thing.”//_

_//“I will put a bullet in its heart and between its eyes for good measure.”//_

 

“He….” Dean sighed in frustration as the words seemed to elude him. “He wasn’t a bad person—vampire. Whatever. Not always. And not when I knew him.” He clasped his hands, and Stiles suddenly noticed that they were shaking, that his father looked almost afraid of what he was about to say. “We met in Purgatory. He helped me escape.”

“You and dad?”

His pop hesitated. “No. Just me. Your dad…found his own way out.” His head dropped, and he closed his eyes. “In Purgatory, he was all I could think about. Because there was still hope, still a way to get to him, you know? And when we were out, I held on for a little while. I still believed that I could get to him, save him. But Benny…” Dean’s hands shook more fiercely and one corner of his mouth quirked. “Benny was very talented with words. Manipulative. He could twist anything I said or thought, even if it was just a little bit…And I started to doubt, started to lose faith.”

“He tricked you,” Stiles said quietly, his eyes wide and unblinking. “What did he want?”

Dean huffed at that, his stiff fingers uncurling from one another so that he could rub a hand down his face. He looked tired and much older than Stiles could ever remember seeing him. He looked so, so… _mortal_. His pop wasn’t going to live forever. Granted, Stiles was sure it would be a long, _long_ time before it was Dean’s time to go. But he would, eventually. Go, that is. Leave. 

Die.

“Me,” Dean said, breaking the teen’s morbid thoughts. “He wanted me. And he wanted Cas out of the way.”

“You? Why did he want you?”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe it was my charm.” He offered a brief smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes like it usually did. “I thought maybe it was just because I’d gotten him out of Purgatory, because we’d spent so much time killing uglies together, but he…he said he loved me—was _in love_ with me.”

Stiles’ mouth went dry as a very _real_ revelation hit him full in the face. “And you…you were in love? With him?”

“Yeah,” Dean said simply, his shoulders hunching.

“Oh my _God_ , Pop!” the teen said in exasperation, leaning forward and covering his face as something stirred in his stomach. “You had an affair!”

His pop scoffed and shook his head. “It was _not_ an—”

“It _so. Totally. Was_ ,” Stiles argued.

“I preferred when you said I was _cheating_ ,” the hunter muttered.

“But you weren’t _cheating_ , Pop,” Stiles insisted, sitting up and gesturing wildly with his hands as he continued. “You were having an _affair_. There’s _totally_ a difference!”

His pop looked at him like he’d sprouted another head, and the second head was just as chatty as the first but contradicted everything the other head said, and it was up to Dean to determine which head was lying and which head was telling the truth.

But Dean looked at him like that a lot, and Stiles knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was the left head that always told the truth. Mostly. Well, maybe they both lied about some things. But only to avoid situations like these. And his pop was the one on trial here, not Stiles, so what the hell?

“You know you’re talking out loud, right?” Dean asked him, and Stiles felt his face heat.

“Shut up,” he muttered. “It _is_ different. Cheating is stupid and meaningless and _so much worse_. But an affair…I mean, it’s still stupid, don’t get me wrong, and I’m surprised Dad didn’t freaking _smite_ you…but it means there was some level of emotion there. You _loved_ him.”

“I love your Dad,” Dean countered.

“You can love more than one person at the same time,” Stiles insisted, wincing as thoughts of Lydia surfaced. “Trust me.”

Dean studied him thoughtfully. “This about that girl?” Stiles nodded sullenly, and the older man sighed. “Wish that would have worked out, you and her. Would have been so much simpler.”

The teen snorted. “Believe me, it _so_ wouldn’t have been.”

“Is she….”

“No. But…her boyfriend is, and he’s such a friggin’ douche, too. He totally doesn’t deserve her. And that’s not even the point—”

“Wait, that kid from lacrosse? How much of the team has been bitten?”

Stiles swallowed. “I’d rather not say. And this is _so_ not about any of that anyway, and I swear to God, Pop, if you start sniffing around my high school, I will be mortified beyond belief, so can we drop it? Please?” Dean raised his hands in surrender, but Stiles could see in his pop’s eyes that he wouldn’t let it go that easily. “And just so we can get this out of the way, I’m not a werewolf. And I don’t _plan_ to be a werewolf. Ever.”

“Good,” Dean said with a nod.

“But I’m in love with one,” Stiles continued, his breaths becoming short and panicked as he tried to explain every thought that was ignoring the speed limit in his head. “And he’s in love with me and respects that I don’t want to be what he is, and I don’t want to hear anymore bullshit about how I’m only a teenager and you’re my pop so you know better, okay? That’s not how family’s supposed to work, and you know it.” His pop looked guilty again, but Stiles didn’t have the heart to feel smug about it this time. Instead, another thought bubbled to the surface, and the question on his tongue got loose before he could reign it in. “Why did you kill him? Benny, I mean.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably and sighed. “After your dad came back, I ended it, told him we were through and that I didn’t want to see him anymore. He…didn’t take it well.” He shook his head, dragging in a shuddering breath before continuing. “He took Sam. And he threatened to turn him, to…to take from him what he couldn’t get from me.” His hands were trembling again, and this time Stiles _did_ reach out and cover them with his own, squeezing warmth back into them.

“So you killed him,” he said simply, and Dean swallowed thickly, nodding his head jerkily, like there was more to it than that, more that he couldn’t quite yet share with his seventeen-year-old son.

“Yeah, I killed him. And your Uncle Gabe wouldn’t speak to me for _weeks_.”

Suddenly, the tension between Uncle Gabe and his pop—that had slowly been boiling down over the years but still sat at a rather persistent simmer—didn’t seem so unwarranted.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, for lack of anything better.

His pop huffed and wiped at his face again, trying to hide the wetness that came away on his fingers. “You shouldn’t be the one apologizing, Stiles.” He turned then, looking the teen in the eyes sincerely and unwaveringly. “I _am_ sorry. For everything I said. I didn’t…Well, I can’t say that I didn’t mean all of it—I still don’t like that you’re dating him. But all the hurtful things I said…I’m sorry, Stiles. I’m really sorry.”

Stiles nodded. “He’s not…Derek’s not Benny.” He swallowed when his pop winced but took a quick breath and continued. “He’s a good person, Pop. I wish you’d give him a chance.”

Dean nodded, albeit hesitantly and with a great sense of reluctance. “I’ll…try.” The teen smiled, throwing his arms around the man and squeezing for all he was worth. That was as good as gold, as far as his pop was concerned.

“So,” his father breathed into his ear with an exhausted sigh, “you’re dating an alpha. That’s just… _great_. Peachy. My son, _Dances With Werewolves_.”

Stiles couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him.

Or the tears.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek could sense Stiles’ distress levels fizzle and almost disappear entirely. Things were calming down, then. That was good. Maybe he’d sneak in through Stiles’ bedroom window and make sure things were all right in a bit…when he was sure Pop Winchester wouldn’t be around.

The front door was probably off limits for a while.

He was nearly to the Winchester house when the back of his neck prickled with an unwelcome sensation. _Danger!_ his mind shouted. But he had no time to react before something blunt and painful landed a blow to the side of his head.

And then everything was cold and ache and dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I was actually a little nervous about this chapter, because it's the first chapter where we sort of veer from Stiles and Derek's relationship for a second and focus a little on Dean and Castiel's (and Dean and Benny's). And while, eventually, things do come about and relate to one another, I still wasn't sure about it for a while. Stiles and Derek were my intended main relationship in this fic, peppered with a teaspoon of Destiel and just a pinch of Sabriel, and, rest assured, Sterek will definitely continue to be the main focus here (and in the sequel, which I already have several plans for--including a bit of an indepth look into Dean and Benny's brief relationship). I just want to make sure I didn't wander too far from the main road....
> 
> ALSO. I'm actually a huge fan of Benny on the show, and I didn't originally intend to make him into the bad guy here...It just sort of happened. Really sorry to Benny supporters out there! :/


	7. A Kidnapping. A Rescue. A Death.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The alpha pack has Derek. And Lydia.

It wasn’t Derek that climbed through Stiles’ bedroom window that night. It wasn’t even someone that Stiles particularly liked, but that fact alone spoke volumes on the situation. 

“Jackson, what—” Stiles said in a harsh whisper, but the other teen immediately clamped a hand over his mouth.

“Shut up and listen,” Jackson demanded, swallowing hard and looking toward the bedroom door uneasily. The pack had probably told him about his dad kicking serious alpha butt and his pop going ballistic about Derek. Stiles had been telling the pack for _years_ about his parents’ bad-assery. It was nice to finally see some respect—or fear, whatever—from someone after all the scoffing and eye-rolling. 

“The alpha pack has Derek,” Jackson said, turning back to the teen with wide, glowing eyes. “And Lydia.”

Stiles heart leaped in his chest, and his nostrils flared as he tried to breathe around Jackson’s hand. He could feel _coldcoldcold_ seeping into the spaces between his ribs, stretching and curling around his lungs. Squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe.

“Hey!” Jackson said suddenly, his hand leaving Stiles’ mouth and roughly patting the side of his face. “We don’t have time for one of your freakouts. Pull it together.”

Stiles closed his eyes, breathing through the pain and the coil around his chest. “What….” he started, gritting his teeth and willing himself to calm down. He had to. For Derek. And Lydia. He had to keep himself whole for just a little while longer. “What do they want?”

Jackson took a step back, his eyes calming to their normal color and his fingers twitching nervously. “You,” he said in little more than a whisper. “They want you.”

0 o 0 o 0

“What do you mean they want _me_?” Stiles asked dumbly, and Jackson rolled his eyes. 

He couldn’t believe he was the one standing here dealing with Stiles stupidity. He should have been with the others getting ready to fight, plotting and planning….

He should have been with Lydia. Screw their stupid fight, whatever it had been about. He should have stayed with her anyway, not left her crying in the middle of her room.

“I think that’s pretty self-explanatory,” he snapped, pacing in front of the other teen as Stiles rooted around the floor in the dark, finding a pair of jeans and pulling them on over his boxers. “They. Want. _You_.”

“Yeah, but _why_?”

“Stop asking questions,” Jackson demanded, pulling Stiles to his feet before he could finish tying his left sneaker on, grabbing a red-hooded sweatshirt from the end of the bed, and shoving it at the scrawny teen’s bare chest. “The pack is at Scott’s. We need to go.”

Stiles scowled as he was man-handled to the window. “Jeez, can’t a guy get a bathroom break before—”

“No,” Jackson interrupted, shoving him out the window and reveling for just a moment in the startled yelp.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles parked his jeep on the street in front of Scott’s house. The place was lit up like it _was_ the actual beacon of Beacon Hills. And the tension radiating from within was enough to make Stiles teeth vibrate. He did a mental check of the wards around the house, wishing he’d been able to put them around his own home—it would have solved a whole hot mess of problems…. But his dad would be able to sense them, and that might create an entirely _different_ set of problems. Stiles didn’t want his parents finding out about his dabbles into magic just yet.

Scott was the one to throw the door open before they’d even reached the porch. “What _took_ you so long?”

Stiles rolled his eyes and pointed to himself. “Human, remember? No werewolf super speed here, buddy.” Scott had the decency to look mildly sheepish, but the look was brief before his eyes glowed anxiously and he stepped back to let the two enter.

Mrs. McCall was in the kitchen, stirring several things in pots and pans on the stove. She was still in her uniform, had probably only just gotten home from work, and here she was cooking for a group of werewolves—who, by the look of things, were far from hungry. But that’s what parents did, Stiles supposed.

“Have a seat, Stiles,” Melissa said with a strained smile, pointing to an empty stool at the breakfast bar. The others were already crowded around it; Boyd and Erica were leaning into one another, sullen looks on both their faces, while Isaac had his head buried in his arms on the smooth countertop, his shoulders shaking slightly. Allison had a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles as Scott sidled up beside her and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck.

They looked at him as he sat across from them, Isaac lifting his head slightly to peer up at him with red-swollen eyes.

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat and looking at each one of them in turn. “Sorry-looking bunch we have here.”

“Stiles,” Scott sighed with a shake of his head, but he would not be silenced. Not at that moment.

Not for the world.

“No. This is _stupid_ ,” Stiles argued, standing and placing his hands firmly on the counter, palms down. They made a loud smacking noise that startled the group, bringing him their full attention. “This isn’t how we’re supposed to be acting. This isn’t…It’s not….” He pushed away the tightness in his chest, forced the coil away. _Just a little longer_ , he begged. _Just a little longer_.

“Stiles, it’s okay,” Scott said, reaching forward and putting a hand on his, but Stiles pulled away quickly and straightened his back, squared his shoulders, leveled them all with a gaze he’d learned from Derek a long time ago. 

“No. It’s not okay. We’re going to take care of this. We’re going to get Derek back, and we’re going to show these alphas that Beacon Hills is off limits.”

His words seemed to work for just a minute. Isaac perked up, Erica and Boyd shared a look and nodded at one another, Allison smiled encouragingly, and Scott followed suit with a half-shrug.

And then Jackson opened his big, stupid, macho mouth. “And how are we supposed to do that?” Stiles clenched his jaw and glared at the other teen, but the idiot just kept on going. “Our alpha is gone. Taken by _other_ alphas. We don’t have the skills to fight these guys.”

“Says who?” Stiles protested quickly, turning back to the group in question. “You’re a pack of friggin’ werewolves, all right? You don’t sit at home anymore wanting lives you don’t have. _This_ is your life. Beacon Hills is your home. And Derek didn’t train you so you could sit around and sulk when he’s in trouble.”

The spark was back in their eyes, Isaac nearly bouncing in his seat as his eyes glowed brightly.

“So what are we gonna do about it?” he asked. 

“Stiles,” Allison said hesitantly, “you can’t just go head-first into something like this. You’ll be giving them exactly what they want.”

“Which is you, by the way,” Erica added helpfully.

“I’m not sitting on the sidelines, guys. I can help.”

“This is our responsibility,” Boyd piped up. “Derek’s our alpha.”

“And he’s _my_ —” Stiles cut himself off, swallowing hard as they stared and waited for him to finish. He was what? Stiles’ boyfriend? No, there was more to it than that. _They_ were more than that. Even before they’d officially called themselves a couple, there’d been an immense attraction, something pulling them towards one another. Derek was the only person that Stiles could ever see himself being with, which was, _yeah_ , a huge revelation at seventeen years of age. But there was no other way to describe it. 

“He’s _mine_ ,” he finished quietly, daring anyone to say differently—not that anyone would. “And I’m not leaving him.” 

The clatter of plates and silverware on the counter broke the tension, making everyone jump. “Well,” Melissa said, a tight smile on her face, “sounds like you all have some planning to do. I’ll just…be upstairs.” 

Pots and pans were moved onto the counter as well; spaghetti (Stiles’ favorite) with red meat sauce and extra meatballs (the pack’s favorite). 

Melissa crossed to Scott, hugging him and kissing his forehead in a display of affection that mothers were allowed in front of friends, that mothers were allowed when their son was a werewolf who faced danger and possible death daily. “Be careful,” she murmured into his hair, and for a moment, like so many other moments, Stiles was jealous. 

Not for the affection. Lord knew he got enough of that from both his parents. 

But for _motherly ___affection, for something that Stiles had only been allowed a short while before it was taken from him, before he was allowed to realize what it was. And it isn’t fair that he doesn’t remember his real mother, or that he should have to think about his real mother when he has two _very_ real parents asleep at home with no idea where he is or what kind of danger he’s getting himself into.

As everyone was piling food onto their plates and stuffing their faces like it was the last meal they’d ever eat—which might not be far from the truth, Stiles was reluctant to admit—he bent down and grabbed the bag at his feet, the one he always kept in his jeep in case of emergencies. “All right, listen. I have a plan.”

0 o 0 o 0

They had Derek and Lydia at the Hale house. The nerve alone made Stiles’ blood crackle with anger. This was supposed to be a safe haven, somewhere they could get away from everything. The pack had even started renovating it little by little, clearing out debris and moving in furniture. They had a kitchen and a den. Electricity and running water. Even wifi, thanks to Stiles.

But this…This was a stain on a life they had built for themselves—with their bare hands, no less. 

And Stiles would not stand for it.

He entered the Hale house as he had a hundred times before, as if he were only there on a social call, as if life hadn’t completely screwed them over again and again and again…as if there weren’t half a dozen alphas standing around the den, red eyes glowing in the dark—all gazes set on a silly boy who dared challenge them. A silly boy who they could snap like a twig. 

Stiles’ magic was limited. He was good with wards and concoctions, blessing certain objects and making weapons indestructible. But he couldn’t do anything here. He couldn’t make a room full of werewolves drop dead in an instant. And he certainly couldn’t re-attach the fingers and toes he saw scattered around the room to the man he loved. 

His throat convulsed, and he had to grit his teeth as he spotted a bloody blob of… _something_ on the floor near Derek. He couldn’t be sure what it was, but judging by the blood running down Derek’s chin and neck in rivers, smeared on his bare chest, he didn’t have to guess very hard.

He was so very stupid for showing up here.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek wanted to tell Stiles that he was stupid for showing up here, for entering the den of a bunch of vengeful werewolves, for falling victim to the first major blunder of hostage negotiation; never _ever_ go into anything alone. Yes, Derek _wanted_ to tell Stiles all that and more. And the only reason he wasn’t chewing the teen out was because his tongue was currently lying a few feet away in a small puddle of his own blood.

Sure, his body was healing itself, knitting new tissue and bone and muscle where there seemed to be a general lack, but it was slow. It was painful. And his body was so concentrated on righting itself that he wasn’t even able to wolf out, which he suspected had been the plan all along.

He was pissed, and he’d gotten more _wolf-got-your-tongue_ jokes than even Stiles would be comfortable making.

“Stiles,” he tried to say, but it came out more as a gurgle than anything. One of the alphas behind him growled, wrapping an arm around his neck and cutting off his air. Derek struggled as best he could, but with nearly half of his fingers missing, his hands slick with blood, it was impossible to get any kind of grip.

0 o 0 o 0

Shit, shit, _shit_. 

They were going to kill Derek. Probably Lydia, too, who was currently lying unconscious (and thankfully, it seemed, untouched) on the tattered couch across the room. And then they were going to kill Stiles. His dads would be pissed. Death was no exception for a serious grounding, after all.

“Stop! Stop it!” Stiles shouted, hand stretched towards Derek and face contorting into a painful grimace. “Just…I’m here, all right? What do you want?”

The main alpha grinned, his teeth gleaming white, stark against his dark face. “We are going to turn you.” He had an accent. South African, maybe. Stiles couldn’t picture werewolves in Africa. Though the cover had to be fantastic—attacks could be blamed on just about any animal imaginable. “And then,” the alpha continued, turning to look at Derek, who was still struggling for air, “we are going to watch you kill your mate and become one of us.”

Stiles was already shaking his head. “No,” he refused, fighting for lungful after lungful of air. “No, that’s not going to happen.”

“And what is going to stop us, boy?” He spat the last word like it was a curse, like it was an insult, and the other alphas in the room chuckled. 

“Why?” Stiles asked instead of answering. He looked to Derek and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Why me?”

The alpha bared his teeth again. “Do you know how far your reputation reaches?” He cocked his head to the side, studying Stiles intently as his gaze dragged lazily up and down the teen’s body. “You are…quite the specimen. Raised by an angel and a hunter with ties into the magical elements. Yes, you,” the alpha said with an approving nod, “will make a fine addition.”

Derek struggled again, growling low in his throat. There was gurgled fluid in the noise, and Stiles clenched his fists when more blood leaked from the corners of Derek’s mouth.

“Stiles,” the alpha said quietly, stepping forward like he knew who Stiles was, like he wasn’t holding Stiles’ boyfriend hostage so that the teen could kill him and become an alpha after he was turned, like Stiles didn’t have anything to lose in all this, “we are counting on your cooperation.” 

“Yeah?” Stiles asked dangerously, his fists shaking at his sides as he turned his attention from Derek to the alpha. “Well, there’s something you _didn’t_ count on.”

The alpha frowned and narrowed his eyes. “And what is that?”

“I don’t fight alone.”

Scott was the first to rush in, taking his place at Stiles’ left shoulder, and the others were just as quick to enter, crowding around Stiles protectively. They moved as a unit, as a pack, restless and ready for what was sure to come. Stiles could see the faint glow in Derek’s eyes, the pride amidst the pain and fury and fear.

“You think that you and these _children_ are a match for us?” the alpha challenged, squaring his shoulders as the others behind him moved to stand at the ready.

“No,” Stiles admitted with a half-hearted shrug, “but they’re a good distraction.”

There wasn’t much time to ponder Stiles’ words before the house began to shake. And then a very large presence filled the room, all attention directed towards something over Stiles’ right shoulder.

“This is my dad,” Stiles said matter-of-factly, “the angel. And I’m not talking about his charming personality.” Nobody laughed. Or even cracked a smile. Friggin’ werewolves. Whatever. The slam of a door sounded, and heavy bootfalls filled the house until another presence, smaller but no less intimidating, emerged from the dark. “And this is my pop, the hunter. I’m sure you know all about him.” Something along the lines of doubt creeped over the alpha’s face. “Why don’t you tell me again what your plan is for me?”

The alpha’s nostrils flared. “This will not end well for you.”

“I think that’s my line,” Stiles said cockily, able to revel in the smug feeling for only a moment before the alphas behind their leader growled and began shifting. Derek’s pack didn’t wait for the transformations to complete, jumping head-first into the fray and chaos. Jackson grabbed Lydia from the couch and ran towards the back of the house while a few werewolves made to escape out the windows, glass shattering as they were pursued by Scott and Boyd. Isaac and Erica were shifted, ganging up on the alpha who’d had his arm around Derek’s neck. 

Derek lay on the floor, trying to push himself up while cradling one obviously broken arm to his chest and slipping in the puddle of blood around him. Stiles’ gaze settled on the alpha leader, who was still staring at him, not having moved an inch since the fighting started. Going for the knife nestled in the waistband of his jeans, the teen started forward, yelling angrily as the alpha smirked. 

Before he could make it more than a couple steps, however, there was a strong hand on his shoulder, pulling him back. “Stiles,” his pop barked, stepping in front of him and shielding him from the werewolf, “get Derek out of here.”

“Pop—”

“ _Go_ , Stiles,” Dean demanded, brandishing his own knife—a much more impressive blade than Stiles’ own.

He didn’t argue, quickly making his way to Derek and kneeling down beside him. The knees of his jeans were soaked instantly, and he winced as he pulled the older man to him, wrapping his arms around Derek’s abused body.

“Stiles,” Derek said, and this time it sounded much more like his name. His tongue must have healed already.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said desperately, wanting to cling tighter but not wanting to hurt his boyfriend. “It’s okay. Don’t worry, my dads will take care of everything.”

As if on cue, Dean called out, “Cas! You juiced up enough?”

“I believe I can extinguish them all, Dean,” the angel replied stoically, and the room crackled. “It would be prudent for everyone to close their eyes.”

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s head and neck, pressing the werewolf’s face into his red hoodie, burying his own face into the dark, matted tufts of hair on Derek’s head, and squeezing his eyes shut as tightly as possible. 

Before the familiar pulse of heat and light and _burnburnburn_ , Stiles heard a growl, heard his pop cry out and collapse to the floor, heard more glass shatter. The alpha was escaping. 

No. _No_.

The room cooled, and he was on his feet, checking only for an instant to make sure that everyone was all right, that his pop was being tended to—the hunter had long, thin slashes across his chest, which Castiel was healing as quickly as he could. He’d been cut off from the power of heaven for a long time, and it took a while to build his own _mojo_ , as Dean called it. It would take too long to heal Dean. Then Derek.

Stiles stooped and turned Derek onto his back. “I’ll be right back,” he said, pressing his lips to the older man’s forehead hurriedly and pointedly ignoring the hand that weakly reached to stop him from leaving, then starting toward the broken window. 

“Stiles,” his dad called warningly, but the teen did not stop. 

“Take care of pop and Derek,” he said over his shoulder. 

And then he was outside, the distinctive sound of growling and fighting and the _thwap_ of Allison’s arrows ringing throughout the forest. Stiles looked up, finding the young Argent girl hidden in the brush of a nearby tree. One of the lesser alphas was attempting to scramble up the tree, several arrows already sticking out of his back and left shoulder. Allison’s next arrow found one of the werewolf’s eye sockets, and he howled in pain before falling to the forest floor in a heap. 

Good, things were going in their favor. Sort of. There was just one exception….

Stiles saw the alpha leader disappear into the trees, and he followed without a second thought, hearing Allison shout his name from her perch once before the Hale house fell away and all he could hear was blood rushing in his ears.

“Come back and fight like a man, you fucking coward!” he yelled into the dark, dodging trees and skidding on fallen leaves. “ _Running from a kid like me? I thought you were counting on my cooperation_!”

He nearly fell as he entered a small clearing, stopping and listening as best he could with his heart pounding in his head the way it was. The sounds of fighting were distant; he was further from the Hale house than he’d like to be, barely within shouting distance. But the alpha was waiting for him, turned and staring at him with glowing eyes that seemed redder than before. 

“You’ve lost,” Stiles said, his chest burning as he dragged in each reluctant breath. “You’re pack is dead by now. You’ve got no one, nothing.”

“I will start again,” the alpha reasoned, lifting his chin in defiance.

“No,” the teen replied calmly with a shake of his head, “you won’t.” He leaped, knife in hand, and managed to slice at the alpha’s forearm before the creature dodged him, hissing in pain and clutching at the wound. “You feel that?” Stiles lifted the knife so that the other could see it, and the weapon glinted in the moonlight. “Silver. Inlaid with wolfsbane. Neat, huh?”

The alpha growled and crouched down, springing at Stiles and slamming him into a tree. The knife in the teen’s hand slid into the alpha’s stomach easily, all the way to the hilt, and the alpha screamed but didn’t let up his hold on the young man. He jerked Stiles’ head to the left, exposing his neck, and began to shift. His teeth grew longer, his nose distorting into a snout and pushing outward from his face. 

The knife was pinned between Stiles’ body and the werewolf’s, and the teen had just enough room to free his hand and scrabble for something in his pocket before those sharp teeth were lunging for his neck. Stiles raised the object, grabbing one end with his other hand, pulling it tight, and forcing it between the alpha’s teeth until it was pressing into the corners of his mouth. The alpha screamed again and tore away from Stiles, scratching at his misshapen mouth as it sizzled. 

Stiles pulled the string in his hands taut a few times. “A little surprise from my Uncle Sam—silver string, unbreakable. Said he got the idea from a hunt with a vampire.” The young man circled the alpha, who was beginning to whine low in his throat, scratching at his mouth and the knife that was still hilt-deep in his abdomen. “So, should we finish this?”

“There,” the alpha spat almost incomprehensibly, saliva and blood flying from his mouth, “will be others.”

Stiles grit his teeth. “And I’ll be waiting.” With that, he shot forward, dodging a swipe of the alpha’s claws and wrapping the string around the creature’s neck. Stiles swiveled until he and the werewolf were back to back, the alpha’s head angled awkwardly over Stiles’ shoulder and the teen pulling down on each end of the string.

“No,” the alpha choked, claws uselessly digging into the flesh of his own neck to get to the string that was already sizzling its way in. 

“Yes,” Stiles countered, wrapping the ends of the string around his palms a couple more times before tugging with all his strength. The alpha screeched and gurgled in Stiles’ ear, convulsed on Stiles’ back. And then there was no more but the release of the string, the _thump_ of the alpha’s head falling at the teen’s feet, and the heavy sound of a body dropping behind him.

Stiles stood there for a moment, letting the ache of his muscles sink in and feeling the cooling of the alpha’s blood on his shoulder and back and _god, that’s fucking gross_. He was going to burn this shirt as soon as he got home.

He shifted on shaking legs, and it didn't register right away. Maybe it was the adrenalin. His first thought was that he'd cracked his ribs being thrown against a tree, bruised his abdomen when he'd fallen. Hell, maybe Mrs. McCall's spaghetti was making a vengeful comeback.

But then Derek was there, stumbling into the small clearing and shouting his name. The werewolf's eyes went wide, his gaze swiveling to the headless body on the ground, to the bloodied silver string in Stiles' hand, to Stiles' heated face...to Stiles' stomach. Derek opened his mouth, and his face contorted like he wanted to cry out but couldn't find the voice to do so.

Stiles looked down...

...and stopped breathing.

That was his blood, and those were a few choice insides, all of which should have actually been _inside_ his body. But they weren't. They were out in the open for everyone to see, mixing with mud and dripping from tattered flesh. Three long gashes marred his stomach—three long gashes the width of _sharpsharpsharp_ claws. And the moment he set eyes on it was the moment it really started to hurt.

"Oh," he said weakly, the string slipping through his fingers and snaking into the fallen leaves at his feet. "Ow."

He stumbled, and Derek ran to his side, catching him before he could fall.

"I've got you," Derek said breathlessly. "I've got you, Stiles."

The teen shouted when a large, warm hand pressed against his abdomen. Something thick and coppery rose in his throat, and he couldn't swallow it down, so it coated his tongue, his teeth, filled his mouth until he could barely breathe.

"It's not that bad," Derek was trying to tell him, but his voice was shaking, his bottom lip was trembling. He didn't even believe himself. "Your dad will be here any...any... I-It's fine. It's not bad. It's not even that bad."

“People—” Stiles started but had to turn his head to spit out the blood pooling in his mouth. "People only say that...when they think someone's gonna—”

“Shut your freaking mouth, Stiles,” Derek demanded, shaking his head and releasing a shuddering breath. “Just...please. Please stop talking. I’ll get your dad.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Oka—” The word cut off abruptly as more blood filled his mouth, saturating his tongue in copper and spilling past his lips in rivers.

“Castiel!” he heard Derek shout vaguely, but his ears were roaring, his vision was blurry, and he barely caught a familiar flash of _blueblue_ eyes before the world dropped out from under him and he was falling and falling and….


	8. A Pact. An Agenda. An Almost Ending.

One Month Ago:

“I think we should go out,” Stiles stated quietly, holding his breath when Derek didn’t respond right away.

Instead, the werewolf opted to furrow his brow, his eyes skimming the next few sentences in the book he was holding before he looked up, then around the library he and Stiles were currently seated in. “We _are_ out,” he responded gruffly, though by the tightening of his jaw and the creaking of the spine of the book in his hands, he knew exactly which kind of _out_ the teen meant.

“On a date,” Stiles clarified, swallowing hard and gripping the pencil in his hands all the more tightly. It snapped abruptly when Derek’s eyes flashed a warning shade of red, which had absolutely no effect on Stiles’ brain-to-mouth filter. “You know, as a couple.”

Derek scowled. “That’s not a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“It just…isn’t.”

Stiles could see the other man was struggling, that it wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to go out with the teen, just that…maybe he thought it was too dangerous. Or he was worried what his dads might think of him. Or he was worried that his dads might be dangerous _once_ they decided what they think of him. Which was absolutely and totally ridiculous because Stiles’ dads were amazing and, yes, sometimes a bit scary but mainly understanding, and they only wanted Stiles to be happy, and this—oh, this—would make Stiles very, very happy. Yes.

Someone from a nearby table shushed them, and Stiles’ face heated as he realized he’d been talking out loud. Again. As usual. Derek was staring at him funny, which could mean so many different things. But his eyes weren’t red, and he didn’t look _mad_ , persay. Just…funny.

“You think I’m afraid of your parents?” he challenged, his tone indignant, but Stiles knew better.

“I _know_ you’re afraid of my parents,” he said adamantly, an unapologetic shrug twitching at one shoulder. “Everyone is.”

Derek’s scowl deepened, but he said nothing to the contrary, his gaze shifting to the book again, where he searched in vain for the place he’d been only a moment before. “Why should we?”

“Go out?” Stiles asked densely. Honestly, he hadn’t expected to get this far into the conversation without Derek storming off. Ripping his throat out. Leaving him to die in the middle of the library. “Um…Because I…like you. And, unless my Adderall dosage is severely out of whack and I’ve been totally misreading things…you like me, too.”

Derek shifted in his seat, closing the heavy book and setting it on the table beside several others. Stiles hadn’t pegged the werewolf as the reading type, but from what he’d found out over the last year with Derek being a little more open about his family and his past, the guy was a total bookworm. And freakishly smart, apparently. Before the fire, he’d been about to graduate high school—at friggin’ fourteen—and wanted to go to med school.

“Yes,” Derek said, interrupting the young man’s thoughts.

“Yes?” Stiles asked incredulously, eyebrows raised. Derek nodded, and the teen cleared his throat. “Just to… _clarify_ … ‘Yes’ meaning I’m totally misunderstanding, or ‘yes’ meaning you like me too?”

Derek stood slowly, taking the few steps around the table, sitting on the corner to Stiles’ right, and leaning into the teen’s space. Stiles didn’t move, didn’t _want_ to move, even with an alpha this close to his throat—his very vulnerable throat, which, when he put some thought into it, was really only a thin layer of tissue stretched over vital breathing instruments and some rather choice, juicy arteries.

“Yes,” Derek repeated, once again breaking Stiles thoughts, before reaching forward to tilt the teen’s chin up with a surprisingly gentle finger and ducking his own head to capture Stiles’ lips in warmth and wet and _DerekDerekDerek_.

Yes. Yes, he could absolutely see himself falling for someone like Derek Hale—already had fallen, actually; fallen so bad it friggin’ hurt—so, so bad.

“Ouch,” Stiles said absently when Derek pulled away, causing a bewildered look to cross the other man’s face.

Stiles smiled and laughed maybe a little too loudly, maybe a little too hysterically. “Dinner,” he said matter-of-factly, enthusiastically. “And a movie.”

The troubled look left Derek’s face, replaced with amusement and exasperation and something Stiles would very soon come to realize was along the lines of fondness, something Derek had been expressing for a lot longer than the teen had been noticing.

“Okay.”

0 o 0 o 0

One Month Later:

The jolt of consciousness almost made him hurl, his stomach twisting nauseatingly and his head pounding and pounding and –

"Stiles? Stiles, buddy, can you hear me?"

It was his pop's voice, and he sounded worried. Really, really worried. Like my-son-was-on-the-brink-of-death worried. And that kind of worry was worrying. Because that kind of worry meant that Dean would look for something—or someone—to blame. And then probably kill it—or them. More than once.

So...shit. 

"Pop?" he asked, swallowing against a throat that was thankfully free of blood and who knew what else. Ugh. Why was that unsettling? Oh, right. He’d been dying. More than likely, he probably _had_ died. And now he was back. And probably—no, definitely—grounded.

"Yeah. Yeah, Stiles, I'm here. Can you open your eyes?"

"Pop," Stiles said again, breathing deep and feeling his abdomen shudder. New skin. New guts. Tissue and liquid literally made from thin air. Everything ached to be stretched and twisted and used until it was just as old as the rest of him. Seriously cool. And seriously gross. "Did you... Did you kill Derek?"

Silence followed his words, and for a moment he feared the worst. And then a sharp chuckle jostled him into reality. White, hot light burned his eyes, and he groaned, bringing his hands up to cover his burning face.

“No, Stiles, I didn’t kill your boyfriend.”

The teen tentatively parted two fingers and squinted with one eye up at the silhouette of his pop. “Are you going to?”

“Are you giving me permission?”

“Dean,” came Castiel’s soft, admonishing tone. Cool fingers were pressed to his forehead, relieving the pain, and Stiles relaxed, lowering his hands and blinking furiously before looking around.

They were in his living room. _They_ were in his living room. All of them, everyone. Well, all except the one person he really wanted to see. Several hopeful faces stared back at him—his uncles and the pack; even Jackson was sulking worriedly behind the rest of them.

“Did I die?” Stiles asked stupidly, feeling the ache of sleep in his bones. He wanted to drop off again, let unconsciousness drag him down until he drowned in his dreams, until Derek was back and safe and _his_.

“For a moment, yes,” his dad admitted hesitantly, watching him with a bright, careful gaze.

Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face, leaning back onto his elbows. “Am I grounded?”

His pop laughed, relief in the lines on his face, around his eyes. “For the rest of your life, kid.”

Nodding with acceptance—because, really, he kind of deserved it—the teen let his head fall back, mustering up the strength to ask the most important question, the one stuck to the roof of his mouth like a peanut butter and molasses sandwich. Dammit, he was hungry. “Where is he?”

Another silence coated the room, and he wanted to open his eyes so badly, to look his family and friends in the face and demand to know where his boyfriend—his _mate_ —was. Derek was his, and no one was going to keep him from Stiles.

He took a breath to ask again, but cool fingers pressed against his forehead, and he found himself falling deeper into warm, warm sleep. “Derek’s fine,” his dad said, voice distant. “He’ll be here soon. Sleep now, Stiles.”

And Stiles did.

0 o 0 o 0

It was nearly two in the morning before Stiles’ bedroom window slid up, and the teen didn’t need to turn from his position on his bed to know exactly who it was.

He didn’t need to. But he did anyway.

“Derek,” he breathed, sitting up and watching the man straighten in the dark. “Where have you—”

“Are you all right?” Derek interrupted, kicking his shoes off, letting his jacket slide from his shoulders to the floor, and cautiously slipping into the bed. He pressed Stiles back down into the sheets, settling at his side and draping a warm arm around him. Stiles turned and burrowed into him, nestling his head beneath Derek’s chin and shivering at the contrast of the werewolf’s chilled clothes and heated skin. Derek’s shirt smelled of damp and leaves and earth. He’d been in the woods.

“Where did you go?” Stiles asked instead of answering the question. He’d had one first, after all. It was only fair.

Derek hesitated before sighing, one hand running up and down Stiles’ back comfortingly. “I had some business to take care of. It’s done, now.”

“The alphas?”

“Gone,” Derek confirmed, pressing a kiss into Stiles’ hair. “Not coming back.”

“Good,” Stiles said tiredly, hands snaking up beneath Derek’s shirt and fingertips pressing into the tense muscles at his lower back.

“Sleep, Stiles.”

“Okay,” the teen whispered, scrubbing his face against Derek’s chest and grinning, “mate.”

Derek chuckled deeply, and Stiles loved the sound of it with his head pressed to the werewolf’s chest. “Not quite yet” he said, amusement in his tone as he rubbed his stubbled cheek against Stiles’ temple.

Stiles leaned his head back just enough so he could look Derek in the eye, albeit a little cross-eyed. “What do you mean?”

Derek’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Well, there’s…more to it than that, I think. Humans can’t just call themselves _married_ and expect it to be official.”

“So we have to get married?”

“We don’t have to, no,” Derek explained, “though sometimes it strengthens the bond.”

Stiles thought for a moment, his fingers playing idly with the hem of Derek’s t-shirt, which was rucked up around mid-torso. “You mean, like… _consummating_?”

Derek closed his eyes and brought their foreheads together, wincing like he wished he hadn’t broached the subject at all. “Yes, Stiles. I mean like _consummating_. Which is not happening.”

A scowl took the teen’s face, and he pushed further away from Derek, teetering on the edge of the bed with only his grip on the other man’s t-shirt to keep him from falling. “Why not?”

“We agreed. Not until you’re ready.”

“Who says I’m not ready?”

“ _I_ do,” Derek argued, pushing up onto one elbow and hovering over Stiles with a determined expression. “I’m not pushing you into this. You’re still just a—”

“If you say _kid_ , so help me, Derek Hale, I will throw you out the window myself,” Stiles warned, pushing a finger into Derek’s chest several times for emphasis. “I’m old enough to make my own decisions, and I made this one a long time ago. So don’t you _dare_ try to tell me what I am and am not ready for.”

Derek’s mouth clicked shut audibly, and normally Stiles would have reveled in the knowledge that he’d gotten the last word in with Mr. Last Word Alpha. But he didn’t. Because he could see what Derek was so afraid of, could see why he was holding back.

“I died, Derek,” Stiles said quietly, pressing himself closer and running his fingers through the other man’s hair when a pained expression took Derek’s face. “And I know how scary that is. It scares me every day, knowing you could die, knowing I might never see you again.”

“I just…” Derek faltered, pressing his nose into the space behind Stiles’ ear and inhaling deeply. “I don’t want this to influence our decision. I don’t want you to make a mistake because you think I’m the only one that—”

“You _are_ the only one,” the teen confirmed, fisting the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck. “You are, and will always be, the only one.” Derek seemed pleased with the words, humming into the flesh between Stiles’ shoulder and neck. “I’m not rushing because of anything that happened today. I promise you, it’s been on my mind for a while, now. _A lot_.”

Derek leaned away, studying Stiles carefully. “You’re sure?”

“Absolutely.” There was no hesitance, and Stiles was immensely proud of himself when Derek grinned ear to ear.

“Okay,” the older man agreed, and Stiles beamed from his very soul. “When?”

“Been thinking about that, too,” the teen said, wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and pulling him into a heated kiss.

Derek groaned, hands tightening around Stiles’ hips as he pulled away, breathing heavily. “Not tonight.”

Stiles laughed. “No, not tonight,” he agreed, settling back against the other man contently. _Warmwarmwarm_ , he told himself. “My eighteenth birthday is next month. I want to do it then.”

Derek was quiet for a moment, contemplating, before he nodded. “All right.”

“Really?” Stiles asked excitedly. Not that he’d expected Derek to say no…but, yeah, he’d totally expected Derek to say no.

“Yes, really.” The older man still sounded hesitant. But they had a month. He’d warm up to it. No, he’d _really_ warm up to it. Stiles was absolutely certain.

The teen flipped them so that Derek was on his back and Stiles was straddling his hips and began peppering the other man’s lips with kisses. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you!”

Derek laughed, smiling into the kisses as they came and trying to speak between them. “You need—to get—some sleep.”

Stiles sighed and put his ear to Derek’s chest, closing his eyes. The steady beat of the werewolf’s heart pulsed in his own chest, making his limbs heavy. “Will you stay?”

Derek carefully turned them until Stiles was on his side again, hot breath puffing over the teen’s face as the older man smoothed his hair back. It was getting longer. He might let it grow out a bit.

“Your parents won’t like it,” Derek warned, snuggling against him anyway and pulling a blanket over the both of them.

“I think they’ll let it slide just this once,” Stiles said sleepily, frowning when his fingers came into contact with the rough fabric of Derek’s jeans and tugging at them unhappily.

Derek smiled and obligingly shucked them off. “I don’t think they’ll let _this_ slide.”

“They already know my boyfriend is a werewolf,” the teen countered, yawning and wrapping himself bodily around the older man. “How can it get any worse?”

With a chuckle and a brief press of lips to Stiles’ temple, Derek said, “Just wait until you have to tell them you’re mated to one.”

0 o 0 o 0

Somewhere Fairly Far Away:

“He did not concede,” the injured werewolf said around bloodied teeth, spitting onto the ground and wiping his mouth. His chest heaved from the exertion of running for so long. But he’d had to get here, had to tell their leader, their _true_ leader, what had happened in a silly little town with a silly little boy and his pack.

Clawed fingers drummed a bored beat against a tree. “I can see that.”

“It wasn’t our fault. The boy…His parents….”

“I am aware of who the boy allies himself with,” the leader said quietly, dangerously, and the injured werewolf cowered, crouching and lowering his head. “A hunter and an angel for parents, an alpha as his mate, and his extraordinary gift…I didn’t expect you’d return as victors.” A flash of bared teeth gleamed in the night. “I didn’t expect you’d return at all.”

The injured werewolf’s head snapped up, and he growled low in his throat. “You sent us to be slaughtered,” he accused, his muscles tensing as he readied to spring into attack. “My brothers—”

“Are dead,” the leader said, suddenly behind the injured werewolf, one arm around his neck and squeezing. “Pity that you’re the only survivor, the only…witness.” A snap, then a wet crack, and the injured werewolf lay lifeless on the forest floor, head detached from his body.

“Sire,” a deep voice said from the trees, and the leader gave a small grunt, brushing invisible dust from his shirt sleeve. “What would you have us do?”

“I have business,” the leader stated officially, squaring his shoulders and cracking his neck from side to side, “in Beacon Hills.”

0 o 0 o 0

Back in Oblivious Beacon Hills:

Stiles grinned. “I love you, Derek,” he whispered, and the arms around him tightened.

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all! Just wanted to thank everyone for reading this crazy fic. :) I really hope you've enjoyed it so far because everyone's bound to return in part two
> 
>  
> 
> **Don't Tell My Dads I Mated With A Werewolf**
> 
>  
> 
> Eek! So excited, you have no idea!! :D Well, I'm sure some of you might. But just to get some of the hype going, here's a sneak preview:
> 
> _Chapter One: A Death. A Mourning. A Decision._
> 
> _Stiles screamed. And when the lifeless body clutched in his arms remained just that—lifeless, cold—he screamed harder. He screamed until his lungs and throat burned, and then he screamed some more. He screamed until noise was a distant memory and all that came out of his mouth were pathetic squeaks and choked sobs._
> 
> _His cheeks were raw and red from tears. Mud caked his clothes and his face, his hands and his arms and everything. Everything. He could almost pretend there wasn’t blood everywhere, too, mixed in with the mud on his clothes and his face, his hands and his arms and everything._
> 
> _Everything._
> 
> _Every. Fucking. Thing._
> 
> _Because Derek was dead._
> 
> _And if he pretended for just a little bit longer, if he held on and closed his eyes just a little more tightly, then it was still just a dream—no, a nightmare. No matter how gruesome and vivid and awful nightmares were, you could wake up from them. Nightmares weren’t real. They couldn’t be._
> 
> _Because Derek was dead._
> 
> _And any reality where Derek was dead couldn’t be anything other than a nightmare. Couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be._
> 
>  
> 
> Aaaaand, I think that's quite enough. ;) I know. I'm a horrible person. But I promise, the new part will be started before the end of the year. The holidays might slow me down a bit, but my New Years Resolution will be to have Part Two finished by end-of-January/mid-February. And possibly to plot out a Part Three? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, I suppose.
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much again for reading! I really hope you guys stick around for this next part. It's sure to be a doozy. :P Later, Gators! Catch you on the flip side.

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah. This is also posted on my tumblr. It's under the Stiles Winchester tag, if you want to find it. Or me. :P I do post new chapters there first, but I will almost always immediately post them here afterward. In case, you know, there's...interest. Or something. Kay. I'll just be over here, then. Bye, now.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let Go](https://archiveofourown.org/works/558618) by [sarahatqt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahatqt/pseuds/sarahatqt)




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